


Anywhere out of the world

by themistyeyeofthemountain



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (never on screen), Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cosette And Enjolras Are Siblings, Depression, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Eventual Enjolras/Grantaire, F/M, Families of Choice, Grantaire Angst, Grantaire-centric, Grief/Mourning, I'm sorry Monsieur Hugo, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Loosely based on Manchester by the Sea, M/M, Multi, Not R nor E, On-screen character death, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2018-10-14 20:05:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themistyeyeofthemountain/pseuds/themistyeyeofthemountain
Summary: It's like that moment in films when everything is going well, then your phone rings and the world crashes down around you.Well, at least that's what happens to Grantaire.Only, this isn't a film. This is life, and he can't wake up.Or: Grantaire loses his sister and has to figure out life afterwards.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate (working) title: "watch me deal with depression, Paris, winter, the brick and the film Manchester by the Sea all at once". Title from Baudelaire's poem "Any Where Out Of The World (N'importe où hors du monde)".
> 
> Warning: suicide ideation, self-harm and child neglect are referred to in this fic. None of them happen on screen and the mentions tend to be quite vague. Please let me know if anything needs better warnings.  
> As usual, kudos and feedback feed the author's greedy, pitch-black and empty soul. Picture a Miyazaki monster you'd feed with Haribo.  
> 

* * *

 

 

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

\- C.S. Lewis,  _A Grief Observed_

 

_Now (February, 2017)_

 

February has fallen on Paris like a worn grey cloak with holes where the sun shines through. The air is crisp, less so than usual, but then that's what climate change entails, and so much the better, Grantaire thinks at his old winter jacket and almost threadbare gloves. The light itself is interesting – when there is light, that is –, with hues and edges begging to be carved on canvas or etched in black charcoal. Grantaire tangles the pencil in his unwashed, almost solid black curls and fishes around for his phone; a glance at the time makes him grimace. He closes his sketchbook and unfolds from the chair he is sitting in in the middle of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Oblique rays of sun caress the fountain, the white paths around it with trees and statues standing immobile against the background of the Senate and the icy blue of the sky. People walk all around him, Parisians hiding their tell-tale stroll in hurried steps and tourists looking around just as much as the natives do but with less discretion, the supposedly bored look of the blasé local absent from their faces. Grantaire huffs a laugh and nonchalantly walks to the eastern gates, headed towards the Seine. That's how you recognise tourists: they don't bother to fake indifference. The cynic and the snotty student in him master the Parisian detachment to an art; the artists still gapes at the pure lines of Notre-Dame. This city never ceases to enchant him, and he quite likes it that way.

As long as Éponine doesn't know, it's all right.

He walks down the Boulevard Saint-Michel with the slanting afternoon light in his back, barely spares a glance to the fountain at the Place before turning right and following the river, eyes fixed on the pavement, dancing between the cohorts of tourists. Notre-Dame slides closer on his left and then disappears behind him as he ducks into the Rue du Chat qui Pêche, notorious for its name and the infamous café _Musain_ , the only place between the river and the Boulevard Saint-Germain where Parisians are more numerous than tourists. It might be due to Louison's unfriendly face when a newcomer pushes the door open, but the narrow street and the discrete entrance are not exactly eye-catching. Grantaire still doesn't understand how the café stays afloat with the number of customers it has, but Ep once told him Montparnasse had told her when drunk even _he_ wasn't privy to the secrets of Louison's account books, and god knows how charming Montparnasse can be when he wants to.

If the face he pulls at Grantaire when the latter steps in is anything to go by, today is _not_ a day he wants to. Grantaire gives him his most blinding and sarcastic grin and a sloppy military salute as he weaves his way between the tables to the stairs and the first floor. The ABC has somehow managed to secure it for all its meetings, official or not (that is, for all the time). Witchcraft and dragon gold might be involved. A certain pair of persuasive blue eyes springs to Grantaire's mind as well but he shrugs it off and pushes the door open.

Until not so long ago, he always used to be the first to the meetings, for the excellent reason he usually spent his days at the _Musain_ , only trudging up the stairs a little before the others arrived and settling in his assigned corner with some alcohol and a cigarette, waiting for the others to trickle in.

He no longer is the first, though: this year, he does go to classes and has been cutting down on his alcohol – and others – consumption. Courfeyrac is always the first triumvir to arrive, because Combeferre is being flayed in med school, and Enjolras is usually meeting other students to talk about coordination, protests and the like before relaying the information to their own ragtag group of starry-eyed idealists. Musichetta finishes her shift downstairs half an hour before, and she is often to be met upstairs, smoking at the open window until Joly comes in and starts ranting about colds, the flu, air pollution and lung cancer while brandishing his cane like some sort of germ-killing d'Artagnan. The rest of their group slowly comes in: Marius, Bahorel and Bossuet together from law school, Jehan from the Sorbonne, Cosette from the Rue Saint-Jacques, Feuilly from one of the ten jobs he has at the moment and then Combeferre and Enjolras who, despite widely diverging schedules, always manage to arrive together with a laptop open and an already advanced discussion on whatever fascinates them at the moment. Bar moths.

Enjolras's love for Combeferre does not extend to moths.

When she still used to live in Paris with him, Éponine had the most unpredictable schedule of them all. She would arrive first or last, sometimes not at all. No-one really knew where she was or what she did in these moments, not even Grantaire. He worried, but there wasn’t much he could do for her. Now that she’s not here any more, he still worries, but for different reasons.

Today being a relatively good day for Grantaire, Enjolras's entrance does not feel like a stab in the lungs but more like a moderate punch in the gut. He doesn't even see him enter as he is roped in a discussion with Bossuet, Chetta and Cosette concerning the latest Star Wars and turning his back to the door. Still, his Enjolras-senses tingle when the blonde steps in, and he wishes for a minute Éponine were here to smirk at him. On the other side of the room, Enjolras and Feuilly start talking about the latter's night classes as Courfeyrac and Marius loudly argue about whose turn it was to do the dishes last night. Jehan steps in with a tray laden with coffee cups and a bite on her pale neck, both courtesy of the sulking barista boyfriend downstairs, and Bahorel and Combeferre start clapping, the first for the hickey and the second for the coffee. Groups are made and unmade as people wander about the room; from time to time, they all fall silent to listen to one of them – Courfeyrac disagreeing with Combeferre on the meaning of the latest unemployment rates, Enjolras gently but firmly shooting Marius down on the matter of the impending presidential elections, Joly and Cosette teaming to propose a campaign to raise awareness on the theme of air pollution. It is a perfectly normal evening in the back-room of the café _Musain_ , only lacking the usual squabble between Grantaire and Enjolras – and as the blonde warms up to the theme of refugees, R sees the occasion approaching. Everything is normal, things are even good – Enjolras smiled at him fifteen minutes ago –, which is why Grantaire really should have expected something to go wrong.

 

The sudden buzzing of his phone in the back pocket of his jeans startles him. All the people he regularly texts to are in this room, not to mention the few selected ones that _call_ him. Éponine isn't, of course, but they talked on the phone less than a day ago.He is clear on the administrative side, has no bills due for the moment, has turned in all his projects...

 _Unknown number_ flashes on his phone's screen as he gets it out, and he lets the call end without picking up. Two minutes later, the phone buzzes again. He sighs, mutters an apology and walks to an empty corner of the room. The conversations are loud enough to create some semblance of privacy in a room full of people.

“Allô?”

 

The world whites out. It's lucky he was standing next to a chair.

 

 

_Then (nineteen months earlier)_

 

“You're leaving Paris”, Grantaire blankly repeated. Éponine didn't bother to nod, still carefully watching him from across the table. The _Musain_ was warm and quiet around them in this empty hour between lunch rush and end-of-classes time. She had taken a seat at his table after having shrugged her waitress's apron off. Grantaire closed his eyes for an instant and took a swig of his bottle without opening them nor using the glass he usually insisted on. When he opened them, she was still there, face unreadable as ever.

Unreadable, perhaps, for anyone else than her adoptive brother.

Grantaire swallowed.

“When?”

“In a month. I want Gav to get to know the place before school starts in September. You're coming too, I'm not moving all my shit on my own.”

“I don't have a car.”

“Someone will lend us theirs. Combeferre or Enjolras. They both have big enough trunks to fit our luggage.”

“I can't drive.”

“I can. I'm not asking you to drive us there, I want you to help us move out and move in. There's a difference.”

Grantaire huffed and raised his bottle again, only to find he had emptied it. He huffed again and forcefully set it down on the table, blinking furiously. Éponine minutely shifted in her seat. When he looked up, her face showed sympathy, as well as an unshakeable determination.

“I'm sorry, R,” she said, gentler. “I just can't stay in Paris. I can't raise Gav here, not with _them_ around. I've got him and I'm not letting him go.”

“And you think the safest place to raise your baby brother is this fucking island four hundred kilometres away?” Grantaire spit out. “Why didn't you tell me this before? We could've worked it out together! Fuck, Ep, you have friends here, you have me, we would've figured it out _together_. But no, you do your shit on your own, as usual, and you just decide to go back _there_ without asking for anyone's opinion –”

“This is no one's business but mine,” she said icily.

“No, it's my business too. I'm your fucking _brother_ , Éponine!”

Éponine leaned across the table, all ice and iron, deadly determination in her eyes.

“Grantaire. I just got custody of my twelve year-old brother. The only reason I got it is because social services still remembered my state when they got hold of me, so my blood affiliation with Gavroche was enough. And I am not raising him in Paris. End of discussion.”

Grantaire swallowed. “But you just got this new job...” he tried lamely, more for the sake of not letting her have the last word. She shrugged.

“That was six months ago, before I knew I was getting Gav. Louison will understand.”

“You don’t know that. That woman isn’t human.”

Éponine snorted in amusement.

“Trust me, she’ll back me up on that one,” she said with enough force to shut him up. He stared at her for a while longer before raising his bottle, remembering it was empty and putting it down again.

“I need you to do one more thing for me,” Éponine said, softly enough for him to look up, surprised. “I can’t leave you here knowing you’ll end up at the bottom of a bottle without me to fish you out of it.” Grantaire steeled himself. He knew what was coming. “I need you to cut down on you alcohol intake. I can’t raise my brother while knowing the other is drinking his way to an early grave.”

Grantaire pursed his lips and looked away from her. He probably would have verbally torn anyone else to shreds. With Éponine, though…

“I’ll try, Ép. I’ll do my best.”

“Your best is enough.”

 

“You’re not only leaving for Gav, are you.”

Éponine’s hands tightened on the steering wheel and she shot him a furious glance. He deserved it, having picked a moment she couldn’t punch him or walk away to avoid the question. Gavroche was asleep on the back-seat of the car, the hits of the summer were lowly crackling from the radio. A few minutes passed in silence.

“Ép,” he prompted her.

She shrugged.

“You’re wrong.”

“Still, say it aloud.”

“Fuck you,” she suddenly spit out. “You know, you _know_ I’m not leaving you because Pontmercy and Cosette are fucking. Fuck you.”

Grantaire bit his lip and stared at the blur of the French countryside at the window. He maybe shouldn’t have pushed, but some words needed to be said aloud. Or at least that’s what his therapist had said in the first session he’d had with him three weeks prior. He definitely did not see Éponine drying something at the corner of her eye. She and him, they didn’t cry.

 

 

_Now_

 

Now, Grantaire is crying. Fat, ugly tears that roll down his cheeks, watering the hem of his hoodie. Face twisted into a horrible grimace, mouth like a painful red wound, eyes two puffy slits bloated with tears. Things a blur, indistinct and fogged over. All strength concentrated in the struggle not to burst into sobs in Enjolras’s car. Can’t breathe.

Enjolras can’t really do anything. The car carries on.

 

 

First, silence. The air is punched out of him. He falls on the chair, breathless, clutching the phone to his ear. He can distantly hear the other person drone on, but it’s muffled, happening to someone else in another universe altogether.

Then –

A horrible sound fills the _Musain’s_ back-room, like the whine of a wounded beast.

People are around him, asking – what.

The whine continues, deep-throated, animal, primary; a wail, the sound of all losses and griefs, the sound a heart makes when it is gutted out. He wants it to stop.

People keep talking around him – a hand on his shoulder, shaking him a little. He closes his throat reflexively, and the sound stops. Apparently he was the one making it. The sound. What? What’s wrong? The phone is wrong, fucking phone, where is it – ah. Shit. Unknown number my arse. What do you mean what’s wrong. He can’t breathe. Words. He doesn’t know how to

                               word any

     more.                                                                                                                                 _Are you all right?_

                                                                  Joly attack?

                                                                        Ah, panic.

                                                                 No, not panic!                                                                                                                _Grantaire_ _!_

He is ~~_not_~~ fine.                      _Panic_.                       Oh my god. Oh m

                                                                                                      y god. Please. Please no, no, nonono – what?

I can’t. Need a ticket. What do you mean what for, I need to get there!A fucking ticket FOR THE TRAIN! Fuck, let _GO_ of me, I need to _**GO!**_ He shakes the hand off, get _OFF_ , he needs to go, I need to -

“ _ **GRANTAIRE!**_ _”_

Bahorel.

“R, _what happened_?”

Bossuet.

Éponine.

Éponine happened.

Fuck.

He can’t help it, the whine comes again, as ugly and knee-cutting as before. A wounded beast.

“ _Grantaire_!”

Question. Answer question. It’s Enjolras’s question – oh god, nononono – can he even _talk_?

“Accident.”

“What?”

“Éponine. She had an accident.”

 

 

“Come on, get in.”

Grantaire takes a step back at the sight of the car next to Enjolras. Joly squeezes his shoulder and doesn’t budge from his side.

“What?”

“Get in,” Enjolras repeats. “You need to get there as soon as possible.”

He doesn’t really understand. He says it. Uncharacteristically, Enjolras doesn’t roll his eyes.

“The next train is at 7 in the morning tomorrow. If we leave now we can be there around 1am, midnight if traffic’s kind to us.”

“You have class,” Grantaire points out, bewildered. Enjolras dismisses the objection with an airy movement of his hand.

“This is far more important. Come on, hurry up,” he answers, walking around his red Clio and getting into the driver’s seat. Grantaire blinks a few times.

“Come on, get in there, man. You know how he is, he won’t move before you’re inside,” Joly tells him. Grantaire turns to him, eyes wide. “It’s Enjolras, man. That’s who he is. Hurry, there’s no time to lose,” he adds, gently pushing him forward. Grantaire mechanically opens the passenger door and climbs in. Joly stands on the side-walk, with Bossuet and all the Amis gathered behind him. “Call us.”

Grantaire nods. Joly shuts the door. Enjolras starts the car.

He still doesn’t understand.

 

 

“We’re nearly there,” Enjolras says, his voice a stone in the pond of silence of the car. Lights flash by on both sides; a few directional signs: the sea is close. The island is close. And then –

Grantaire doesn’t want to think of it.

11:56 flashes blue on the dashboard.

He’s called the hospital thrice already, each time they stopped for gas, food or a quick dash to the loo. Coma. A stationary state, they say.

He’d better hurry, they say.

Enjolras is a good driver. He drives fast but safe, as concentrated on the road in front of him as he is on anything else. Sometimes, Grantaire wonders how things don’t melt under his gaze – glare –, under all this single-minded, blazing focus. Sometimes he feels he does, and whoever’s upstairs knows Enjolras doesn’t ever waste much concentration on _him_.

Sometimes, he wonders what would be left of him if Enjolras were to look at him like this, one day.

Suddenly, the sea is here, in all its enormous mass of liquid night. The bridge to the island stretches in a graceful arch speckled with yellow and blue public lights.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras softly says.

Enjolras is like Éponine: he doesn’t do softness. He is all flaring words and cutting beauty, hard and sharp like a marble angel. Grantaire turns around a little and glances at him: he still has his eyes on the road, hands at ten and two, but something in his body language makes it clear that his attention is now divided between what is in front of him and Grantaire himself.

“I… I know I’m not very good at all this, and that you’d prefer it were Joly or Jehan or, hell, even Montparnasse with you here, but…” He trails off. Grantaire doesn’t deny anything. He can’t play Icarus all the time, and being next to the sun requires some kind of energy and attention he doesn’t have. He does wish someone else were driving right now. “What I mean is that I know we’re not the best of friends, and that there’s little I can do for you. But whatever you need – _whatever_ ,” and here Enjolras glances at him, a quick blue dart to get his point home, “I’m here. For you. If you want.”

Grantaire swallows, thrown off. This Enjolras is not the one he knows. He doesn’t know how to deal with this.

“Okay. Thanks,” he finally says, gruff and hoarse. He adds: “I do. Want to, I mean. Thank you.”

Enjolras nods and slows down as they get near the end of the bridge. The direction to the hospital is marked on the right. The blond turns the steering wheel and Grantaire is taken by the sudden need to draw these long, pale, delicate hands. _Not the time, brain_. His fingers itch for a pencil and the smooth feel of expensive paper.

After a few minutes, the car slows down again as they enter the parking lot. Grantaire can already smell the hospital’s sanitised white light. He is shaking. The car stops.

They’re here.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

"It kills me sometimes, how people die."

\- Markus Zusak,  _The Book Thief_

 

Grantaire slowly pushes  _beep_ the room’s door, Enjolras’s presence behind him oddly reassuring. The first thing he sees is a hunched form near the bed. The bed is the second thing he sees. _beep_

Éponine is the third, so pale she almost _beep_ disappears between the sheets, to purple and bruised Grantaire feels physically sick at her sight – a sharp intake of air behind him lets him know it has a similar effect on Enjolras. In _beep_ a corner of the room, Éponine and Gav’s neighbour, old and kind Monsieur Mabeuf, is softly snoring on an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair.                                                                     _b_ _eep_

The slump, Gavroche, stirs at their entrance, raising his head and meeting his eye.

“Hey, sparrow,” Grantaire half-whispers. _b_ _eep_ Gavroche grimaces a watery smile; Grantaire opens his arms, and the kid – not so much of a child any more, fourteen, all lanky limbs and defiant eyes, although the latter have always been there – jumps from his stool _beep_ into them, crushing him in a fierce and almost desperate hug. “Hey bud,” Grantaire softly repeats, hugging back and closing his eyes for a moment. He knows what he’ll have to do when he opens them again. _beep_

Look at his sister.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he says. Gavroche shrugs, disentangling himself from the embrace.

“It’s okay. I didn’t think you’d be here before tomorrow morning anyway.”

“I told the hospital to let you know I was coming.”                                                                                                                   _beep_

“I know. I just didn’t understand you’d be here so soon. It’s okay,” Gavroche repeats. His voice has dropped since last time Grantaire saw him, and that was two months ago. Grantaire swallows, nods, and gets closer to the bed; the wounded animal stirs again, but he _beep_ keeps a leash on it, if only for Gav’s sake.

He almost doesn’t recognise Éponine. The damage on her face is less consequent than what he thought at first, but the white bandaging around her forehead and the bruises and scratches on the right side of her face are enough to turn her into a near-stranger. Most of all, Grantaire thinks, it’s the paleness under all the bruising, making her look almost white,which has never happened in her life.          _beep_

“What exactly happened?”

“Ice,” Gav answers, face twisted with hatred towards the world as a whole. “She was on her motorcycle, coming home from her job. Night had fallen, she took a curve, didn’t see the black ice, slipped and went straight into the trees.”

“Shit."

“Yeah.”

There is nothing else to say.

_beep_

He sits down on Gav’s vacated stool and takes Éponine’s cold, limp hand. Raising it to his forehead, he scrunches his eyes shut and lets out a trembling breath. Gav moves around the bed; somewhere behind him, Enjolras leans against a wall. _Come on, Ép, don’t do this to me. Please don’t do this to me_.

 _I’m sorry_ , the doctor they’d met in the hall outside her room had said. _There’s nothing else we can do. She has to pull through on her own now._ The woman with the brown eyes had laid a hand on his forearm. _I hate saying this, sir, but don’t let yourself hope too much._

_beep_

_Don’t do this to me, Éponine._

 

Time passes, cold and sluggish. Grantaire realises he’s been shivering for a while when someone lays a warm jacket on his shoulders. He turns around without letting go of his sister’s hand. It’s Enjolras.

Oh.

“Take it back, you’re going get cold.”

“No, I’m okay,” Enjolras answers. He looks almost as tired as Grantaire feels. “I’m always warm anyway. You need it more than I do. I’m going to go fetch some coffee, do you want anything?”

“I… yeah, okay.” Grantaire looks at Gavroche, asleep, slumped on the bed, and at still-snoring Monsieur Mabeuf. “I’ll have a coffee too. Take a hot chocolate for Gav and a tea for Monsieur Mabeuf if you can, please. We’ll try to keep them warm until they wake up.”

Enjolras nods and quietly slips out of the room. Grantaire stays alone in a room with three sleeping people and –

– and a machine that hasn’t beeped in far too long.

Grantaire’s heart lurches in his throat and he scrambles to take Éponine’s pulse.

*

At that moment, the door opens and two nurses barge in, waking Gavroche and Mabeuf up. They push Grantaire and Gavroche away from the bed. The next few minutes are a blur. More nurses rush in, all of them speaking in hurried tones, words Grantaire can’t understand. Gavroche huddles against him. Grantaire’s heart is beating so fast it’s going to break his ribcage. He feels like he is going to vomit.

The machine still isn’t beeping.

He panics.

The nurses have started a cardiac massage – 30, 2, 30, 2, 30, 2 – defibrillator, _buzz_ – 30, 2, 30, 2, 30, 2 – _buzz –_ five, ten, twelve minutes –

*

“I’m sorry. We’ve lost her.”

*

“Grantaire, I’ve got your coff– _oh_.”

* 

At first, it doesn’t sink in.

He signs forms, dumbly nods, takes offered burial services’ phone numbers, pries Gavroche away from Époni- the bod- _pries Gavroche away_ , clenches his jaw, doesn’t look back, receives Mabeuf’s condolences and offer of help with a nod, thanks the skies Enjolras knows not to say anything as he drives them to the house. Gavroche’s eyes are hollow as he stares into the driver’s headrest. Grantaire alternates between sneaking glances at the teen in the back-seat and loosing himself in the dark rush outside his window. 05:18 glows blue in the silence as the car swallows the road.

No-one sleeps that night.

Grantaire and Gavroche sit at the kitchen table, staring into their cups of cooling tea. Enjolras disappears into the house, seems to find his way to one of the guest bedrooms and put his things away. Grantaire can hear him make a few phone calls, softly speaking from somewhere in the dark insides of the house. He is grateful, in a distant, detached way, to know that Enjolras is efficiently taking care of relaying of the information to everyone in Paris. Grantaire isn’t sure he can say the words yet. Maybe not ever.

At around half past six in the morning, when the ticking of the clock has been the only breathing thing in the kitchen for so long it has invaded their minds, Grantaire looks up as Gavroche stands from his chair.

“I’ll just… I’ll be in my room.”

Grantaire swallows. “Yeah. Okay. Tell me if you need anything, bud.”

Gavroche nods and walks away into the unlit house. Grantaire finds himself alone – again – _tics_ and _tacs_ instead of _beeps_ , a kitchen instead of a hospital room, and world paused, time stopped, a _NO_ carved into the very fabric of things, like a free fall with no landing.

 

Jehan, Joly, Bossuet and Courfeyrac arrive by train in the middle of the afternoon. Enjolras leaves in his car to fetch them at the train station, and Grantaire knows he has thirty minutes to pull himself together enough to be able to talk a little. He – _they_ , really, he is not alone, Enjolras’s help is a godsend – have spent the morning calling funeral services and setting arrangements for the burial. Gavroche and him are to go and choose the marble for the gravestone tomorrow morning.

Grantaire just wants to wake up.

Instead, he makes his way down the corridor and knocks on Gavroche’s door. When no answer comes from within, Grantaire slowly opens and peers inside. The room is dark, the blinds shut, and smells of sweaty, restless young sleep. A form is huddled under the duvet on the bed. The kid is curled up sleeping in a foetal position Grantaire thought he’d given up ages ago. His heart aches at the sight. He wanted to tell Gavroche Courfeyrac is coming down – along with Montparnasse and Bahorel, they make the holy trinity of “favourite uncles”, only without the sappy family name; he’d be jealous if he didn’t think himself a brother. He reckons that is why Courfeyrac didn’t wait for Combeferre, who can only come down by tomorrow evening with the rest of the band. He is glad, in a muffled way. Sighing, he pads out of the room, closing the door with a soft, careful click, knowing better than to wake the bird.

By the time the red car pulls in he’s managed to have a quick shower, shave and put on fresh clothes, which is decidedly more than he ever thought he’d manage. He steps out of the house and makes his way through the garden as the occupants of the car bolt out. Bossuet starts by running to him, tangles his feet in the air and almost makes an unwanted acquaintance with the grass, saved _in extremis_ by Jehan’s strong arm. Joly huffs a white cloud of breath in the cold air and walks to him more slowly, his cane dully thudding on the half-frozen earth.

“Hey there,” he says softly once he’s reached Grantaire. The latter stretches a wobbly smile but doesn’t let himself talk – suddenly, sobs are brimming under the surface, called in by Joly’s worried face, by Bossuet’s clumsiness and Jehan's quiet presence, by their being here, out of place, out of time, the unneeded proof that something has gone irreparably wrong. So he doesn’t talk, just smiles a wet grimace and nods. “Hug?” asks Joly.

“No,” rasps Grantaire, shaking his head. Not now. Let him pretend his armour isn’t made of cracked glass and sodden paper. Joly nods, quickly squeezing his arm and then moving away. Grantaire turns back to the others, who are all watching him with distinct degrees of worry and sadness. “Hey,” he tries to grin. “Thanks for coming so fast. Come on in, it’s freezing.”

They all know their way around the house. The thing doesn’t make sense, an old barn reconstructed and added to that’s ended up with enough rooms for all of them. Grantaire will never understand how Éponine can stand living here. The memories are one thing; the emptiness of an enormous shell housing two inhabitants is another.

Not can. _Could_  stand living here.

_Shut up._

They all know their way around, but Grantaire seems to have forgotten his way around _them_. Enjolras’s presence hadn’t been too hard to bear; disconcerting at first, but all right, as though he’d sewn clouds around his brilliance to temperate is a little. They hadn’t talked much, hadn’t been silent either. But keeping to facts – the date, the numbers, the cost, the shape, the stone, the engravings, the place, the time –, not letting one drop of emotion seep into the conversation had kept it endurable. Unexpectedly, but also a little unsurprisingly, Enjolras’s distance with emotions and their strained relationship had also helped, almost giving the morning a tone of professionalism Grantaire wouldn’t mind now. Because now, with the four newcomers, the house stirs and breathes around him, and Grantaire is going to have to talk and hug and touch and listen.

He relearns how it feels not to be able to do one single thing of these.

He wants to wake up.

 

Times passes in leaps and bounds, starts and a syncopated rhythm, like bubbles or hiccups with some hours in-between. The whole crew trickles down from Paris as excuses are found and schedules freed. The funeral is planned for Friday. Everyone is there by Thursday evening, even Cosette, and heaven knows the additional workload she’ll have after missing two days of class. But she seems to be like her brother, who’s just lost four days of class and looks like he couldn’t care less – when Grantaire knows Enjolras to be a sick overachiever. The Valjean siblings are strange people.

Time passes, but Grantaire doesn’t see it. Between the planning for the funeral – some of which is taken care of by Combeferre, Chetta and Parnasse, an unlikely combination that _works_ –, the worrying about Gavroche, the meetings with Gav’s teachers and headmistress and blank parentheses where Grantaire loses hours staring at a wall, Friday rushes on him like a thousand bulls, like that scene in _The Lion King_ everyone hates, and he’s barely thought of Éponine.

Because, inexplicably, Éponine is alive.

She’s everywhere. She’s in their shared bathroom in the mornings. She’s in the hairs she didn’t take out of the brush – _gross_ –, in the super expensive herbal shampoo Cosette had gotten her for Christmas; she’s in the kitchen before he pulls the door open, she’s in the footfalls on the carpet at 3am when neither of them can sleep, she’s in the messages on his phone, the one message he didn’t answer to at once because he was running late, the one message he wants to answer to, he _needs_ to answer to, the one message she won’t reply to if he does.

He’s barely thought of Éponine, except for all the times he realises she’s missing. But she could be elsewhere. She could be at work, she could be doing god knows what with Montparnasse, she could have gone to fetch Gav at school. Anywhere but dead.

He isn’t in denial. He simply won’t compute his sister is gone, for real, gone as in never coming back –

gone, as in today is her funeral.

Gavroche has categorically refused to wear anything formal, and they have all imitated him. As usual, he’s wearing a weird combination of his own clothes with additions from Éponine’s and Grantaire’s. Montparnasse has lent or given him a silk neckerchief, which in itself is the proof something is not normal, because Montparnasse never lends his clothes to anyone, not even Jehan. In any case, the wind and the cold are strong enough for everyone to be bundled up in their coats and jackets, a colourful bunch of potatoes shivering in a graveyard. Distantly, Grantaire wonders what would have happened had the ground been too frozen to dig the grave. This kind of thing never happens on the Atlantic coast, but the thought is intrusive enough for him to close his eyes against the nausea.

After regrouping at the funeral house, where they had all seen Ép’s face one last time, waxy and pale, _nausea again_ , a thing and not a person – _this is not Éponine, I’m telling you_ , everyone thinks and silently agrees – they had walked to the graveyard through the half-deserted streets. Grantaire is still surprised at the number of people who turned up. The Amis, of course, but also Ép’s co-workers and boss, some Gavroche’s friends and teachers, their neighbours, the grocer. People who knew and appreciated Éponine, who saw her every day, who unknowingly showed her she could be a functional and liked member of society. People who unwittingly helped her heal and grow, her dark skin and hint of an accent notwithstanding. He chuckles ruefully. Gavroche leans a little against him, Montparnasse on the sparrow’s other side, tall, lean and elegant, watching his best friend’s casket being lowered into the grave. Grantaire realises with a pang he’s barely spoken to Parnasse, despite knowing how much he ~~cared~~ cares _(still does, always)_ for Ép.

And then the coffin hits the ground, and Éponine has been buried.

 

 

_Then (2009)_

 

They stood in front of the grave a long time after everyone was gone. The May sky was bright and clear, blue and fluffed up with white clouds.

“We’re like square orphans now,” Grantaire said out of nowhere. Éponine slightly turned around and stared at him with a hint of disbelief.

“Do you even _know_ what square means?”

“Hey, I’ll let you know I took maths until three years ago. I’m not that stupid.”

Éponine snorted and turned back to the freshly put stone slab.

“Technically, I’m not. A square orphan, I mean.”

“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t matter. Square orphans sounds cool.”

Ép snorted again, a little more forcefully. Grantaire put his arm around her shoulders and pulled until she reluctantly got closer to him.

“Hey, hey, don’t you start the waterworks, yeah? If you waterwork I’ll waterwork too, dude.”

“That’s not even a work, R.”

“Like you care.”

“True.”

Some time passed, a May-time, warm and full, with the added quality of a Friday morning. Grantaire felt this was going to seriously dampen his take on Fridays as a whole. He also told himself that if he kept having inappropriate thoughts at times like this he’d have to go see a therapist once he went back to Paris. Speaking of…

“So you’re coming to Paris with me.”

“Well, it’s not like my lone ass is going to stay here,” Éponine replied. Grantaire shrugged a little and took his arm back.

“I still don’t get how you managed to stay here so long. I’d go mental.”

“You already are,” she automatically shot back.

“Not the point.”

Éponine huffed and suddenly turned around, heading for the graveyard’s gate without looking back. Grantaire cursed under his breath, stooped, lay his hand on the cool stone one more time and ran after her.

“R, I know you hate this place, but stop shoving your issues on me, will you,” she muttered with no real heat. Chastised enough, Grantaire bumped into her and only relaxed when she bumped back.

That night, they both pretended they didn’t hear the other cry. Being square orphans had a price.

Éponine moved in with him in August. Sometimes, Grantaire feels that that’s when everything started.

 

_Then, but Later (sometime in 2011)_

 

“So I got a job,” Éponine said one evening. Grantaire looked up from his sketchbook.

“Where?”

“A café. Bit far from here but it’s close to school.”

“But does it leave you enough time to study?”

“What do you think.”

Grantaire stared at her, at her defensive tone and closed body language.

“Okay, that’s great, Ép. Can I ask a question?”

“What.”

Éponine didn’t ask questions. She stated. _What_ , a stone. Tell me. That’s why she scared people, or part of the reason. That’s why, Grantaire knew, people thought social services weren’t for her.

(People, Grantaire knew, were idiots.)

“We don’t need the money. We have some and in any case we can sell the house – _in case of_ _an_ _emergency_ ,” he added before she could say anything. The argument about selling the house would be for another day, when Grantaire wasn’t still feeling echoes of his mid-afternoon coke high and an itching at the back of his skull, want for more, need now; when he had new arguments to sell that old, hated carcass.

“I’m just asking, don’t get defensive. So, why get a job?”

“I want to earn money on my own and know I have it. That’s all. Question answered.”

“Fair enough,” Grantaire muttered, going back to his sketch – an assignment, faces seen through different types of glass bottles. The trick was to do it _without_ any bottle at hand, which was a shame, because Grantaire could at least have contributed to that part. A last thought crossed his mind. “ _Ép_!” he called.

“ _What_ ,” she answered from within her room.

“What’s the name of the place again?” he half-yelled, head slumped back against the top of the armchair, staring at the ceiling. Éponine emerged from her room, leaning on the wall with a hand as she unlaced her battered Doc Martens with the other.

“Don’t say 'again', I didn’t tell you. It’s called the _Corinthe_.”

Grantaire chuckled. “Nice.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *miraculous update appears*  
> Warnings: mentions of self-harm and child abuse as well as recreational drug use.

“Falling in love is very real, but I used to shake my head when people talked about soul mates, poor deluded individuals grasping at some supernatural ideal not intended for mortals but sounded pretty in a poetry book. Then, we met, and everything changed, the cynic has become the converted, the sceptic, an ardent zealot.” 

― E.A. Bucchianeri, _Brushstrokes of a Gadfly_

 

 

_Then (After, but also Before) (Namely: January, 2012)_

 

The _Corinthe_ ’s entrance door was painted bright red.

This is something Grantaire will always remember. Before stepping into the _Corinthe_ for the first time, his life had been bottle-green and city-grey, with flashes of blue when he let himself think of the ocean under the summer sky. His blood, blooming under the cutting caress of a razor when Éponine was out, was red, of course; red like a drop of paint swallowed in a glass of water. The colour never stayed. All that was left behind were ugly pink criss-crossed scars that took weeks to fade and were a pain to hide from Ép.

But from the moment Grantaire stepped into the _Corinthe_ , his life was drenched in red.

 

Actually, that’s an overstatement of Grantaire’s, the kind that springs in his mind at two in the morning when he stumbles through the streets, teeth chattering and alcohol blurring his vision. But the hot blonde standing tall and proud in the middle of a cleared space lit by warm yellow lights in the café is not a sight Grantaire will ever forget.

 

It somehow took him five months to go to Éponine’s workplace. Granted, she didn’t particularly want him there, considering his track record; but he’d asked, cajoled, begged and promised until she had relented.

“One time, R. And I’m controlling your alcohol consumption. If you make them fire me…”

“I won’t, Ep, promise. Three glasses, no outrageous flirting, no swearing –”

“… no _ranting…_ ”

“No ranting either, promise. Just let me go, Ep.”

“Fine. Fine, you can come next Thursday night. But _remember_!”

“I know. Promise.”

On Thursday, after he’d finished the one modelling class he still went to, he ended up pushing the red-painted door, his smirk already in place. Éponine raised her head from behind the bar, curtly nodded at him and kept tending as usual, abiding by her own rules. Grantaire winked in return, took a few steps towards the counter and promptly fell in love.

 

There, another overstatement.

 _Ish_.

 

He was tall, taller than Grantaire. Blond, the skin of a marble angel, a red hoodie with some loose threads dangling on the front from where he must have ripped the logo off; beautiful, the facial features of Michelangelo’s David, of Praxiteles’ Hermes. Most of all, a surprisingly deep voice, as if a porcelain flute had emitted the sound of a brazen battle-horn, a ringing voice that ensnared everyone’s eyes like a hook and kept them pinned on him.

 

That is how Grantaire meets Enjolras.

 

Grantaire almost stumbled on his own feet and caught himself up at the last moment, remnants of his classical dance training saving his dignity. This jostled him out of his star-struck contemplation and allowed him to take his surroundings in a little. The café was rather empty, even for a working day evening. Apart from an old man, clearly a patron who must have spilled enough alcohol on the counter for it to be almost kin to him, the people were young, probably mostly of age, none older than twenty-five. A quick glance and his trained eye allowed him to catch all the attenders’ expressions, all listening with varying degrees of attention to what the blonde was saying as the latter paced between the tables, singling out one person or the other as he developed his discourse. Beyond his beauty, beyond the startling clarity of his voice, his mastery of rhetoric, an art long fallen into disuse, was itself entrancing.

Until Grantaire cleared his mind enough to _listen_ to what the other was saying.

“… call people to vote. I know – I know, Ferre, I’m quite aware that our primary focus is education, setting up school support systems in the _banlieue_ , educating people on climate change and the rest, but this is important. Surveys show…”

“… what they always show, Enj. They always are defeatist,” interrupted a round young man around Grantaire’s age – _Ferre? –_ seated at a table on the edge of the cleared space.

“Careful with surveys though,” called another man more in the back. “They often get it wrong, but the _wrong_ kind of wrong.”

“Exactly, thank you Feuilly,” the blonde started again. Ange. Grantaire sincerely hoped that was his true name and not an affectionate – amorous? – pet name. “We can’t know, Courf.” Not Ferre, then. “People around here aren’t going to vote, or will vote for the right and the left can’t afford that.”

Grantaire snorted. “The left? What left?”

He realised he’d said it aloud when the whole assistance turned to him, Ange the first.

“What do you mean, _what left_? And who are you?”

“Exactly what I said,” Grantaire smugly replied, slipping into his role as he would in well-worn pyjamas. “There is no left left, my friend.”

Ange’s eyebrows shot up. “At all?”

“No. People don’t want to change. It’s all too much trouble.”

Grantaire almost physically felt Éponine tense behind her counter. Ange fully turned toward him. The seated man, Courf, looked at him with some interest, as well as most of the assistance.

“So it’s useless to vote for it,” Ange coldly said. Grantaire shrugged.

“Yeah.”

“And what do you make of your right to vote? It’s a duty –”

“Come on, man, don’t give me that 1848 crap,” Grantaire cut him, pleasantly registering the surprise that flashed on Ange’s features. He did know his dates, goddamit. “People don’t care about voting anymore. Politics are dead. What matters now are private interest, the economy and making sure you won’t get mugged by the next bearded middle-eastern man you sit with on the metro. People are scared, selfish and racist. What is voting worth in this case?”

During his little speech, Grantaire had moved to an empty table and propped himself against it, leaving his bag on the ground, crossing his arms in a carefully relaxed pose. He saw Ange purse his lips and huff.

“That’s ridiculous. You’re basically saying that living isn’t worthwhile because you’ll end up dead anyway."

“The comparison is a little far-fetched but yeah.”

“So you say people should abstain? In a show of protest against the lack of political offer?” asked a tall, Black man. “I’m Combeferre, by the way,” he added.

“In a show of nothing, man. I mean, you can show whatever you feel like, I’m not telling anyone what they should be doing…”

“Aren’t you,” muttered Ange.

“Enj,” gently chided Combeferre.

“… but I don’t see the interest in voting when it isn’t going to change anything at all.”

“Maybe that’s because most people think exactly like you,” bites Ange. Grantaire chuckles.

“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe it’s because I know those who can change the world don’t need to vote to be listened to.”

 

 _That_ is how Enjolras meets Grantaire.

 

The discussion ended when Combeferre subtly manoeuvred the conversation towards other, calmer topics and the rest of the assembly took over, making Grantaire realise how much Ange and himself had been monopolising the conversation. At the end of the meeting, during which he had been rather silent, compared to his… _remarkable_ entrance – which he was coming to terribly regret, _couldn’t keep your mouth shut, you worthless piece of shit,_ _you fucked it all up even before it began_ , _[here’s food for intrusive thoughts]_ –, Combeferre and a few other members of what was turning out to be a cohesive, long-time crew – _shame shame shame shame smile_ _your way through it_ – came to him to introduce themselves and get to know him. Despite his crashing the meeting and probably making the worst first impression in history. _What do you care what other people think_ , he could almost hear Éponine think at him from behind the counter. He didn’t know. He just cared, more than he should have.

Combeferre was around Grantaire’s age, wore square-shaped glasses and his hair shorn short, a crisp white shirt neatly tucked into khakis, smart and pristine shoes; he had had a half-fond half-amused smile when watching Ange, from time to time a small shake of his head, as if counterarguments were already forming in his mind. He was calm and gentle, seemed patient and willing to give everyone a chance. Including Grantaire, apparently.

With him came Courfeyrac, who had been seated at the table closest to the clearing. He was short where Combeferre was tall, round where the other was lean, had brown curls and freckled skin. He wore a green, slightly rumpled shirt and equally rumpled jeans. An impression of warmth exuded from him, like a smile dancing around his frame, the promise of kind arms and listening ears, or so Grantaire felt.

There was Joly, wearing only blue, a grin, a cane and ten medical recommendations as soon as he’d shaken Grantaire’s hand, and Bossuet, completely bald, an old Rolling Stones t-shirt,  _real name is Jean Lesgle but_ _we have someone in the group who likes Voltaire’s puns_ , a clap on the shoulder that turned out to be a last-second grip after he’d stumbled on thin air.

Then came Jehan, _not Jeanne, Jehan, like the medieval name,_ a tall redhead whose hair was braided with coloured ribbons, wearing a Bolivian poncho onto which she had sewn pockets to carry her books without the need of a bag – mostly verse in old editions – and whose bare unshaven legs ended in battered combat boots. She blushed furiously when introducing herself and then proceeded to rope Grantaire into an intense five-minute discussion on Marie Laurencin before Courfeyrac vied for his attention again.

“So you believe voting is useless,” he chimed, more curious than accusatory, all dancing eyes and open smile, willing to listen to whatever bullshit Grantaire was going to feed him. The latter opened his mouth, ready for a rant where Plato, Neruda and Coluche would probably all end up fitting, before deciding he owed these people the truth, as disappointing as it may be. He chuckled.

“I don’t believe in anything, dude. That’s all.”

“Brilliant. A nihilist,” said a cold, hard voice behind Combeferre, who closed his eyes for half a second before turning and giving Grantaire sight of Ange.

“Grantaire, I believe you and Enjolras have not been properly introduced. Grantaire, Enjolras – Enjolras, Grantaire.”

“A pleasure, Apollo,” Grantaire joked, pulling an exaggerated bow with his beanie in hand. Before Enjolras could answer to the nickname he’d twitched at, Éponine appeared at Grantaire’s elbow.

“Everyone, this is my brother, Grantaire. Sorry I couldn’t make the introductions before.”

“We didn’t hear you at all tonight, Éponine,” piped Jehan.

“I was on shift, Flower. Couldn’t really participate, even if you kind of privatised half the room. Unofficially.”

“Wait,” Grantaire said, “you mean you’ve been attending these… meetings and you didn’t tell me?”

“There’s a fuckton of things I don’t tell you, R. Get over it,” Éponine bit back a little too harshly. “Besides,” she continued in a kinder tone, reaching up to ruffle Grantaire’s hair, despite the beanie, “I knew you’d be trouble.”

“Oh, not at all,” intervened Combeferre. “Grantaire’s intervention was really interesting. You provided quite a unique perspective here.”

“We don’t get enough new blood as it is,” added Courfeyrac. “Any new point of view is valuable. You made us think a little!” he chuckled. Grantaire couldn’t help but smile back.

 

And _that_ is how Grantaire meets Les Amis.

 

That’s not how he gets adopted by Les Amis, though.

Despite the polite invitation Combeferre and Courfeyrac had extended, he could feel his presence was disruptive – he was too loud, too passive, too much of a disbeliever and a drug user to fit there, despite his seemingly endless historical and philosophical sources. In addition, he couldn’t stand the contempt that had taken place mid-way through their discussion in Enjolras’s eyes.

He didn’t ask Éponine to go to her workplace again, and she didn’t offer.

But all came to a stop a night in early April. Grantaire had used a little too much on the afternoon, had left their shared flat for his modelling class in a state of semi-consciousness, had been refused entrance as his professor deeming him unfit to attend class, and had then realised he had forgotten both his wallet and his keys at home, and that it was freezing. He had luckily taken his metro pass in his coat and resolved to go to the _Corinthe_ and wait until the end of Ép’s shift. He didn’t realise it was Thursday until he arrived at the _Corinthe_ and stumbled upon the almost complete group of Les Amis loitering in front of the café. Joly’s delighted grin greeted him as though he’d never left.

“Grantaire! It’s great to have you here! Though you’ll freeze if you keep insisting on dressing up like this, have you _seen_ the thermometer?”

“Hey Joly,” Grantaire awkwardly greeted back. “What’s wrong?”

“They don’t want us here anymore. Hello R. Is it all right if I call you that?,” said Bossuet. Grantaire returned the greeting. “Said we had to pay more to have access to the café.”

“I… I didn’t know you paid anything at all. Why raise the fee now?”

“It would seem we are _disruptive_ ,” bit a hard voice behind Grantaire. The latter started a little, turned around and found himself staring at Enjolras, who did not seem to recognise him.

“Doesn’t anyone have a big enough flat for all of you to fit?” asked Grantaire.

“This is not a meeting so we can chat about our weekends. We intend to draw students and workers to us,” replied Enjolras distractedly, his eyes following Combeferre who was animatedly talking on the phone. Grantaire nodded and was looking for an excuse to leave at once when –

“Oh,” he murmured, his eyes going wide. Turning to Courfeyrac (and avoiding to look at Enjolras in the process, because he felt he needed sunglasses for this particular interaction): “Look, I might have a place where you all could go for your meetings. It’s on the other bank of the Seine. I’ll call and ask for you if you want.”

“Mate, if you manage to get us a place like this one, we’ll all owe you more than we can count,” answered Courfeyrac, clapping him on the back. Grantaire nodded, biting his lip and stepped a little away to call the _Musain_.

He had discovered this hole-in-the-wall not long after arriving in Paris, two years before. He had been in the street because of its name – La Rue du Chat qui Pêche, how brilliant was that – and since he had made it his mission to get to know every bar in Paris, he had stepped in. He had become a regular patron; before he had dropped out of most of his classes, he would work at a table there; the prices were obscenely low for a 5th arrondissement establishment, and after he had done a few repairs and painted a whole wall for free, Louison had deemed it acceptable he stay. How her number had ended up in his phone was still a mystery waiting to be solved.

The conversation with Louison soon morphed into one between her and Combeferre, who commandeered Grantaire’s mobile phone. Having apparently reached a satisfying agreement, Combeferre hung up, gave Grantaire his phone back and turned to the still waiting group, which had grown in size with some faces unknown to Grantaire – presumably students from the nearby schools and universities.

“All right everyone, listen up. The _Corinthe_ ’s owner doesn’t want us to use their room anymore, but with the help of Grantaire over here,” gesturing at the latter, who fought his discomfort with a wide grin and a hand wave, eliciting some laughter, “we’ve managed to secure a new place. Some of us will check it out before anything happens, so today’s meeting is cancelled. We’ll put the new address on our facebook page, you know the drill.”

People scattered as the core group huddled around Combeferre, Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

“The trouble is the place is a bit far from here,” said Combeferre.

“Where is it precisely?” asked Enjolras, frowning already.

“5th arrondissement, between the Boulevard Saint-Germain and the Seine,” answered Grantaire at once. “Near Saint-Michel.”

Enjolras pursed his lips. “That’s going to be too far for a lot of the students here.”

“That’s right, but on the other hand we’ll be able to recruit far more around there,” said Courfeyrac. “In any case, we need to go and see for ourselves,” he added. “But whatever comes out of it, thank you very much, Grantaire.”

“Yes, thank you. It was good of you to do that,” said Enjolras, intensely staring at Grantaire, who nodded awkwardly, mumbled something about somewhere to be and hurriedly left, completely forgetting Éponine and the apartment’s keys in the process.

He was, truly and beautifully, fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an explanation of the "Voltarian pun", aka why is Bossuet nicknamed Bossuet: https://cerulean-melancholy.tumblr.com/post/160659668958/explaning-hugolian-puns-why-bossuet-is-lesgles


	4. Chapter 4

 

“And how can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who were left behind?”

\- Carson McCullers, _The heart is a lonely hunter_

 

 

_Now (February, 2017)_

 

Everyone leaves on Sunday, two days after the funeral. Joly and Jehan repeatedly offer Grantaire to stay a few more days with Gavroche and him, but he declines. Both of them have classes to attend and Grantaire isn’t sure he can keep his façade up much longer. He is immensely thankful for his friends’ support and love, but, while he knows they are grieving too, he can’t stand their looks of compassion, their carefulness, their light touches as though he were made of thin glass. Some leave by train, the last ones to go pile up in Enjolras’s red Clio. There are hugs, whispered promises, _Call me if you need me_ , _You know we’re all here for you_ , _Hang on there buddy_ , _I love you man, stay safe_ _and keep us updated_. As everyone climbs in and straps themselves, Grantaire grabs Enjolras’s sleeve – Enjolras, who seems to have purposefully lingered behind, the last one to get in the car. They haven’t talked much, a few words here and there, lost in the hiccuping pre-funeral days and the rushed post-funeral moment.

“Enjolras, I…” Grantaire starts, stops, remains silent, stuck in the middle of the garden as a Sunday evening prematurely falls on them. Everything is cold and hushed like soiled damp cotton. Enjolras stays silent too, waits for Grantaire to find the words, patient and quiet like he seldom is. Grantaire grits his teeth and painstakingly gets the words out. “You just gave one week to drive me here, stay with me, help me organise everything _and_ attend the funeral.” His voice breaks on the last word and he stops talking to stare at a point over Enjolras’s shoulder, fighting the tears welling up in his throat. Enjolras waits, and Grantaire is once again grateful that the other seems to know the value of silence. Once he feels he can speak without choking on his grief, he proceeds. “You didn’t have to do that. We’re not… You didn’t have to. But you did.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to say something like _I would have done_ _it_ _for anyone_ , or _That’s what anyone would do_ , something Grantaire doesn’t want to hear, so he lifts his hand and silences him.

“Don’t. I’m just… What you did, it was a good thing to do. You helped me. Thank you.”

Night keeps falling, an early cloak of freezing darkness. The street-lights wake up and spill their orange glow in circular blotches on the pavement beyond the garden gate. Behind Grantaire, the house pours out a responding orange light through its windows, like squares of empty warmth cut out against the falling shadow. Enjolras nods, lifts his hand to put it on Grantaire’s shoulder, seems to think better of it, lets it fall down again. Grantaire’s eyes follow the movement, unwittingly drawn to these hands he still longs to etch on paper, despite everything else.

“I’m glad I was of some help,” Enjolras answers, crisp and articulate as always, though the edges have softened a little. “Look, I know everyone has already said it to you, but if you need anything, call me. I can be here in four hours.”

“Wouldn’t dream of making you miss another week of classes,” Grantaire jokes lamely, mostly for himself – dismiss the offer at once so he doesn’t let himself think about it. But Enjolras shakes his head.

“I’m serious, Grantaire.”

“You always are.”

“And you, never.”

“ _I_ am wild,” he answers, a smirk tugging up his mouth. Instead of the usual irritation, Enjolras rolls his eyes with something like almost-fondness before his usual focus returns.

“Really, though. If you need anything, call me. I can miss classes. Believe me.”

Enjolras is serious – of course, he always is, and why wouldn’t he be now? So Grantaire believes him, believes him when he says he is sincere, because Enjolras does not offer lightly, does not throw words around like Grantaire himself does.

“Okay,” Grantaire murmurs, throat full again. “Okay. Thank you.”

Enjolras smiles at him then turns and walks to the car. He gently gets Gavroche out of Montparnasse’s arms, hugs him fiercely and whispers something in his ear that makes Gavroche wanly smile, before sliding into the driver’s seat. Grantaire’s eyes meet Montparnasse’s, who is seated with Jehan and Courfeyrac on the back seat; he offers a small smile that isn’t returned, but Grantaire did not expect it to be and is all right with that. He still feels like he hasn’t reached out enough to Parnasse, but he’s trying.

As the car leaves in a flutter of waving hands and Joly’s _“_ _Call, you jackass!”_ , he steers Gavroche back into the lit house, grumbling something about kids who have class on Mondays and dinner needing to be made. Gavroche quips about guys who think they can boss people around because they’ve just figured out how to boil water. The pasta they make taste like ash in their mouth and they hurry to swallow it all and escape the ticking of the kitchen clock, which has not stopped since Grantaire first set foot in this house twelve years ago.

As the kid retreats to his room, Grantaire braves the freezing night air to smoke a cigarette, which, ironically enough, drowns the taste of ash the food had left in his mouth. If Éponine were here, she would pluck the smoke and take a few drags before giving it to him again, between her thumb and forefinger so he could directly take it in his mouth, a small attention that speaks volumes, like everything else with her. If she were here.

If she were here, he wouldn’t need to be.

He finishes the cigarette, crushes it under his foot and goes back in, leaving the butt in the frozen grass, where no-one can call him a tosser for not picking it up anymore.

 

 

“Ah, Monsieur Louis, and you must be Gavroche. Mademoiselle Thénardier – Éponine – spoke of you both at length,” says the notary, showing Grantaire and Gavroche the way to his study.

Because, as it seems, Éponine was worried and careful enough to hire a notary and draw a full, very much legal will. She was twenty-five, a year younger than him. Bloody hell, Grantaire thinks, giving a fleeting thought to the pile of unwashed dishes that has been sitting in his Parisian apartment for two weeks now. _Way to adult, Ép_.

 _Shut up_ , he hears and ignores the telluric heartbreak that rattles through him. He politely nods to the man and takes a seat in front of the desk. From the window, he can see the main harbour, grey docks licked by a grey sea under a grey sky, with little blots of colour as the fishing boats come back surfing on the tide.

Beside him, Gavroche shifts a little and sends him a discreet kick under the desk, which makes Grantaire start and realise the man has been prattling on the entire time and is now watching him, waiting for an answer. Grantaire throws a glance at Gavroche, who is lost in the contemplation of a hideous painting above the notary’s balding head, though his jaw is far too clenched for someone merely dissecting an ugly so-called piece of art.

“So, M. Louis, what do you think of this?”

Grantaire would feel like he’s gone back to his high school years, caught up in class not listening at all, except for the fact he is too weary to find that comparison appropriate. Because he’s an adult now, and because he really doesn’t give a fuck, he simply refocuses on the notary and blankly stares at him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gavroche’s custody, M. Louis. Éponine has you marked as her next-of-kin, and as the only option suited for Gavroche’s custody.”

That’s when Grantaire forgets how to breathe. _What_.

“You mean… permanently?” he garbles, throwing a quick glance at Gavroche, who is now playing with his Converse laces. Grantaire would think the kid couldn’t care less about the conversation except for how hard he is biting his lip. He suddenly wishes he’d left him in the waiting room. _Stupid._

“Until Gavroche turns eighteen, yes.”

“But I… I barely have a steady income, I’m an art student, for god’s sake! I live in Paris in a dingy flat and –”

“All the financial aspects of the question would be covered by the money Éponine got out of the trial against the Thénardiers, as well as financial help from social services.”

“This doesn’t solve the problem of the location,” Grantaire blandly points out. This is surreal. He should have seen it coming, but it’s surreal. “Both my job and my studies are in Paris and they can’t be moved to here, not even temporarily. And Gavroche –”

“Gavroche cannot go to Paris. Éponine explicitly stated it in her will. He is under no circumstances allowed to settle in Paris before he turns eighteen.”

Grantaire remains silent for a moment, his mind churning. Then, turning to Gavroche:

“What do you think of this?”

The kid looks up, a little surprised. But hell, Grantaire is eleven years older than him, not his father. He can’t discuss this without including him.

“I… I’m sorry, R, but I can’t leave here. This is my home,” he slowly answers, with a steadiness Grantaire was not expecting. “My whole life is here. Besides,” he takes a deep breath, one Grantaire recognises as the one needed to say the next sentence without bursting into tears, because he draws the same every single hour of the day. “Ép was right.” His voice doesn’t waver on Éponine’s name. “I can’t go to Paris with them still around. It isn’t safe.”

Grantaire nods and stares blankly at the view of the port outside. The fishing boats are beginning to enter haven past the dike and the lone black-and-white lighthouse, green and red and yellow sliding in front of, on and under a stale wintry greyness. God, how he hates this place.

That’s when the realisation strikes him, _really_ strikes him with all its blunt unescapability: he is stuck here, on an island four hundred kilometres away from Paris, with a boy whom he doesn’t share a drop of blood with and a name written on a tombstone along with dates of birth and death that will make visitors pity “this poor girl, so young, can you imagine?”. He is stuck here, having barely notified his professors about his absence, with no job, no prospects and no way out.

He is trapped.

The notary’s clearing of throat calls him back to the office. He draws a deep breath, runs his hands on his thighs a few times and finally looks up at the balding man.

“Why would she do this?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. But still, why, _why_ would Éponine entrust her hard-won little brother’s safety to an alcohol-prone, self-harming, depressive Parisian art student in his mid-twenties?

“Because she had no one else to trust,” the other simply answers, and Grantaire gets a glimpse of the hours Éponine must have spent here in this office, going over every single aspect of this document, and revealing her story, her brothers’ story, _talking_ like she might never have done before, and he feels a sudden if distant wave of gratitude for this unassuming, weasel-like man who didn’t show his sister pity as much as attention.

Grantaire closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing like Jehan – for meditation – and Bahorel – for capoeira – both taught him a few years ago. The room is quiet, three breathings and the whirr of the notary’s computer, the distant shriek of the port’s gulls despite the thick windowpanes.

This cannot be. This cannot happen. In one document, Éponine has torpedoed Grantaire’s whole life, or what was left of it. He knows he still has a choice – if he insists, Gavroche can be taken by social services once again and placed in foster care. He can still say no, I really _really_ can’t, I’m sorry, and hand over the kid to people who actually know what they’re doing.

And lose him in the process.

Gavroche is more than Grantaire’s adoptive sister’s younger brother. He is _Grantaire’_ _s_ own brother, his sparrow, part of his patchwork family. Éponine trusted him to take care of Gav. _Gavroche_ himself trusts him to take care of him, trusts him enough to let him close, despite the awful childhood the kid has had and the trust issues he must have.

He is trapped.

_How the fuck could you do this to me, Ép._

 

_Then (March, 2015)_

 

Grantaire was very busy rolling a joint right over his open sketchbook in a small park when his phone buzzed. He ignored it, finished the roll, flattened an extremity, set it in his mouth and fished for his lighter in the pocket of his coat. Inspiration had abandoned him an hour ago and he had gone out in search of it, despite the cold and quite hatefully Parisian March quality of the air these days. The lighter was not in his coat, nor in the hoodie’s pocket under it. He lost a minute blindly pawing for it before remembering he’d shoved it in his trousers’ pocket, alongside his phone –

– which was buzzing rather insistently, too much to be ignored. Only one person would try again after having failed at contacting him once.

“What’s up, dude,” he lazily asked while lighting – at last – the damn joint and taking a drag.

“ _Shit,”_ said Éponine’s voice on the other end of the connection – too winded, too _brittle_ for things to be all right. Grantaire straightened from his usual slouch at once, putting the joint away.

“You all right? What’s wrong?”

“ _My brother,”_ answered Éponine in a bland voice.

“Yeah, that’s me. What did I do wrong?”

“ _Not you, the other. The little one. Gavroche.”_

… shit, indeed.

“What do you mean Gavroche? Do you have news?”

“ _I… yeah.”_ A deep breath. _“Where are you?”_

“Belleville.”

“ _Be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t move. And finish your damn joint,”_ she curtly said before hanging up. He stared, dumbfounded, at his blank phone screen, before re-lighting the roll and taking a drag.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Éponine was indeed there in her usual fake-leather jacket, battered Marteens and black jeans, a straight-up _fuck you_ to winter temperatures. She also carried a bag, which was quite unusual of her – she had of course used one when going to class, but never when going elsewhere. Her tight jacket and trousers always seemed to spout hidden stuff, such as her wallet, keys, phone, lighter, smokes, and on one memorable occasion a five inches-long knife that had been taken from her at the entrance of the Louvre. It always amazed him, how remnants of her childhood still stuck to her despite everything else; how she knew to make herself invisible, or that having a bag was begging to be robbed, or what person to talk to in an entire crowd to get one precise contraband item. That Grantaire knew too, but only because he made it a point of honour to know _everyone_ in Paris, or at least everyone worth knowing. His own special brand of half-neglected, half-abused childhood had stayed with him too, of course, in small things, quick reflexes, empty bravado, absolute hatred for any and all kinds of authority figures – _except one_ , his mind whispered from time to time before he made it shut the hell up. Point in case being that Éponine’s bag was surprising. Unexpected. Worrying, almost.

“What happened?” Grantaire called as she made her way to him and sat down on the bench.

“What happened is that Azelma – my sister –”

“I know who Azelma is, come on, Ép.”

“ _Azelma_ ,” she repeated with enough force to make him understand interruptions were most unwelcome, “sent me an email this morning, look,” she said as she opened the laptop she’d carried in her bag. “I have no idea how she got mine, but whatever. What happened is that the Thénardiers left the US for France three weeks ago, that she’s only just found my email, that _they_ still have Gavroche, who is now twelve and has managed to contact Azelma for help.”

“Wait, what?”

“Read the goddam email, R. Look: Gavroche somehow managed to contact Azelma before they left the States to beg for help, but she got there too late and they were already gone. They’re back in France, most probably in Paris,presumably re-establishing connections – I’ll have to ask Parnasse about that, by the way,” and Grantaire really didn't want to know how could Montparnasse know about _that_ , “with Gavroche in tow. Az is working out a visa to come to France but since her papers are on the shifty side because of _them_ , it’s being a little difficult at the moment. So she is asking me to find them and start the procedure to get custody of Gavroche.”

Grantaire stared at her for a moment, entirely speechless. Then stared at the laptop screen. Then back at her.

“What. The fuck.”

 

“Pontmercy. Bahorel, Bossuet,” Éponine greeted as Grantaire and her took a seat around the café table. Marius smiled at them, sweet and guileless, Bossuet threw a “my dudes” and Bahorel a “What’s up, boss. Not you, R.”

“I know, arsehole,” Grantaire pleasantly shot back. Bahorel grinned at him and blew a kiss to Éponine, who rolled her eyes. The darker tinge of her cheeks was the only hint of the flustered state Marius’s presence put her in. This whole unrequited love business was a shame, Grantaire thought. Marius really was a nice chap to hang out with. Although it might not be Grantaire’s best interest to start talking about unrequited crushes turned into soul-deep wounds, or whatever.

“So what’s the pressing matter requiring the assembly of the legendary Law School Trio?” boomed Bahorel. Bahorel did not speak like a normal person. He boomed and thundered, roared and rumbled.

“That’s us,” Marius threw in. “The LST. Which sounds like a venereal disease, though it’s really not.”

“Thanks, Marius,” Bossuet said. Marius started blushing and apologising but Éponine cut short to his flustering. Family emergencies did seem to make the crush recede or momentarily shut up, Grantaire noted.

“Not now, dudes. I’ve got a problem. I need help.”

Now there was a sight that left them all speechless. Éponine asking for help. Bahorel sobered up at once and she started explaining the situation. Between Bahorel who had seemingly been in law school for the last seven years, Bossuet who had a prodigious memory and Marius who took his studies very seriously, they formed a good enough team. And getting custody of a willing child when the blood relation could be officially proved didn’t seem to be that complicated if the necessity of it was acknowledged by child services. The real problem was _finding_ the Thénardiers.

“I can get Montparnasse on it,” Éponine said. “They must have activated their old contacts again. He can find them in no time if he puts his mind to it.”

Bossuet nodded and started detailing the procedure. Grantaire looked at Ép for a moment before focusing on the conversation. Her face was shuttered and terribly serious, a little like she had been a few weeks before when she had taken her final test to enter social services. He was starting to think this was her face to tackle things far, far bigger than her.

 

They got Gavroche three months and a half later.

Azelma never came to France.

 

 

_Now_

 

Gavroche is quiet.

Gavroche is _never_ quiet – he talks, whistles, laughs or sings, always in motion, always filling space with his jokes and jibes. He is the most resilient person Grantaire has ever met, always bouncing back, refusing silence, refusing fear. Refusing death.

Hence the discomfort – the awkwardness – the _worry –_ that seeps through Grantaire when the kid doesn’t talk for three hours after they get out of the notary’s office. Grantaire treats him to a warm crêpe on the port. Gavroche quietly thanks him and then eats his crêpe. In silence.

“It’s not against you, you know,” Grantaire says to the potatoes he is peeling in the kitchen that evening. Gavroche keeps working on his maths problems at the kitchen table. Saying nothing.

“Gav. It’s not against you. It’s not that I don’t want you.”

“That’s what it sounded like to me,” Gavroche shoots. He still hasn’t lifted his eyes from his notebook, but he’s at least stopped jotting down numbers. Grantaire sighs, puts the knife and the half-peeled potato down and goes to take a seat in front of the kid.

“Look,” he starts and waits until Gavroche is looking at him. “I get why Ép wanted me to be your guardian. I… I wouldn’t mind that. I’m twenty-six and barely responsible, but Gav, I’d adult like fuck for you, buddy.” Gavroche snorts and his nose crinkles a little in that adorable fashion that makes Grantaire want to ruffle his hair. “I just can’t leave Paris. I can’t live here. I just… I can’t.” The amused light disappears from Gavroche’s eyes as a candle that has been snuffed out. Grantaire suddenly hates himself for it. How selfish, how utterly _selfish_ of him is it to cling to a city his little brother can’t go to, to only think of himself when someone so strong and yet so brittle _needs_ him? For a moment, in a flash, he sees himself giving in, moving out of his studio, cancelling the classes he gives at the Louvre and the ones he attends to at the Beaux-Arts, finishing his philosophy degree by mail, quitting from his job at the public library and moving down here. He could find a job and occasionally pepper things up with commissions from clients on the internet. He could –

– he _must_.

Right, there’s that. He doesn’t have a choice.

“I will, though. It’s not like we have a choice,” he adds at last. Gavroche bites his lip and says nothing for a while.

“You could… I mean. You could…” he stops, twirls his pen around his fingers like Grantaire had taught him the second day after they’d met. “You could entrust me to child services. That’s all right,” he lies. His effort almost makes Grantaire hurt. _He’s a_ _kid, for fuck’s sake._ _Stop treating him like an adult._

“You’re crazy, I would never do that, Gav. I’m not letting you go. Unless you want me to,” he adds, remembering what Javert had said to him all these years ago when he’d arrived in this house. Gavroche purses his lips in what looks freakily like an Enjolras look and shakes his head. Grantaire smiles at him, suddenly feeling very tired. What a pair they make. “Then that’s it. I’ll find a way. I’m not leaving you, promise.”

As his eyes distractedly sweep across the kitchen, he becomes aware that this is his home now, whether he wants it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed Grantaire does a lot of things. This man never sleeps. Ever.


	5. Chapter 5

"Surviving is the only war we can afford."

\- Margaret Atwood, " _They are hostile nations"_

 

 

_Now_

 

“What do you mean you’re not coming back?” Joly panics on the other end of the line. Grantaire sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, walking away from the restaurant he just managed to land a job in. He could take the bus to go back to the house – and thank the stars for public transportations or he would have to get his driving licence and a car and he really can’t afford either –, but he is far too worked up to sit still, and doesn’t want anyone listening in to his conversation with Joly. He feels like he has been on the verge of a panic attack ever since their appointment with the notary yesterday, but has been squashing it down with the imperious need of _find a job take care of Gav send emails to my professors_ _BE RESPONSIBLE_.

“Exactly what it means, Jollly,” he meekly answers. Joly sighs – a few seconds of expelled static in Grantaire’s ear – and Grantaire relents. “I told you. I got Gavroche’s custody. I’m staying here and taking care of him until he turns eighteen.”

“R, that’s four years away.”

“I know.”

“You’ll be twenty-nine by the time you can move back to Paris.”

“I _know_ , Joly!” Grantaire snaps. He furiously stares at the side-walk, taking a deep breath to calm down. He is not used to _feeling_ that much – anger, panic, fear; usually, the brightest colours in Grantaire’s world are his paintings, not his emotions. But he feels cheated on, trapped, and all the more guilty and selfish for it. He haltingly says so to Joly, who sighs again, out of concern this time.

“Oh, hey, R. What you’re feeling is valid. Your life just kinda crumbled down in the last two weeks–”

“Wow, thanks, man.”

“… you know what I mean. Blast, I’m not good at this. Are you sure you don’t want me to get you Courf? He knows how to… emote.”

“I know, and I love him, but he’s not you, Jo. If anything I’ll call him later,” Grantaire answers. Joly chuckles and Grantaire can almost see his grin.

“Thanks. Anyway. Are you sure there’s no way out of this?”

“I could always hand Gav to social services. But–”

“You can’t.”

“Yeah. I know social services aren’t always as bad to kids as they were to me, but I really can’t give him up as if I didn’t care. This kid has been through some shit, Jo. I want to give him stability and a home if I can help it. He’s got enough abandonment issues as it is.”

“You won’t be able to give him much of anything if you hate your situation as much as I know you do.”

There. This is why Grantaire has called Joly, even if Courfeyrac is, admittedly, the psychology student _good_ at emotions. Because Joly is honest, sometimes painfully so, and that’s what Grantaire needs right now, not sugar-coated reassurances or sympathetic smiles.

“You think I don’t know that? He was right there with me in the notary’s office. He saw me panicking when I was told I was appointed his legal guardian. He already half-thinks I don’t want him.”

“… shit. Have you spoken to him?”

“Yeah. But still. He’s just lost his sister, who was the only parental figure he’s even known. I… I’m fucked up, Jo, I don’t know if I’m good for him.”

“You’re not as fucked up as you think, R.”

Grantaire barks an ugly laugh.

“No, I’m serious, dude.” Joly sighs again. The line is briefly filled with the muffled sounds of someone squeezing their phone between their shoulder and their ear to have both hands free. “Look, I get it, I think. Like, shitty childhood, shitty teens, abuse, neglect and depression, and then you come to Paris and your adoptive dad dies and you lose all frame of reference except for Éponine who’s trying to hold it as she can, so you do drugs and you drop out and everything. I get it. But R, you’ve been going steady for more than two years. You’ve been attending classes, you managed to land that art classes job at the Louvre, you’re halfway through your philosophy degree because you’re really good at it… You’re not as fucked up as you think,” he repeats, and Grantaire can feel the disagreeable truth coming in. “I think – I’m no therapist, but I know you; I think you keep telling yourself you’re fucked up because it’s easier to define yourself by it than accepting your shortcomings as they are, human flaws and not outer signs of mental illness.”

Grantaire stays silent. It _is_ disagreeable. Terribly so.

“Look, I’m not saying you’re not really still struggling with depression or remnants of your childhood, yeah? Like, who am I to tell you that. But if you think of it, you _can_ act like an adult and do it all right, you’ve been doing just fine for the past few years, going sober and being responsible and, you know, even happy at times, if I’m not wrong.” A stretch of silence, some shuffling sounds. “What I want to tell you is that you need to stop pre-emptively justifying any mistakes you might make in the future by saying _I’m fucked up_. You can’t keep excusing yourself from your own life like that.”

Scratch that, the first part was a mild inconvenience compared to _this_ truth-bomb. Grantaire focuses on the little cloud of white air he breathes out and tries to ignore the urge to throw up. A minute passes in silence and Grantaire is grateful Joly does not try to jostle him out of it before he is ready.

“I… wow, man. Wow,” he finally says, for lack of anything else.

“I’d say I’m sorry, but…”

“No, no, you’re not, that’s okay. You’re right. I just… you just punched me in the face with words. It hurts, dude.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Just… let me process this. Tell me about the crew or something. I’ve been missing a ton of stuff, I bet.”

So Joly does tell Grantaire about everything that has happened in their little band, because even though Grantaire is in daily communication with most of them, very few can tell stories like Joly can. And because Joly is Grantaire’s best friend, he might mention Enjolras a bit more than the rest of the Amis. Neither comment on it.

 

*

 

**06:12 PM**

_so i have a kid_

 

Grantaire stares dumbly at the message he has just sent to _Enjolras_ of all people, says “FUCK” very loudly and puts his phone face down on his bed before leaving the room altogether. He can’t explain the urge that possessed him to write to bloody Enjolras and even refuses to think about it.

He tries to stop thinking about everything at once – Éponine, the ugly painting in the notary’s office, Enjolras, Joly’s words, how Gavroche must be sitting in the school bus right now and could have an accident at any moment, the pregnant smell of onions in the kitchen of the restaurant where he’s working, Éponine, his text to Enjolras, how he is trapped here, the kitchen’s clock’s loud ticking two rooms away – _everything –_ and instead sits down to tackle the third book of Nietzsche’s _Gay Science_ , so he can pretend he's actually working and not fighting off a panic attack like a bloody professional.

He may once have gotten a luminous glimpse of something resembling _truth_ through these pages, but presently they swim before his eyes. He sighs, closes the book, jabbing his index finger in it to mark the page, and emptily watches the darkness behind the windowpanes. It is half past six. Gavroche will soon be home, and then Grantaire will have to get up, start putting dinner together, see if the kid needs any help with his homework – he never does –, try to coax a laugh out of him to make sure the he will have laughed at least once today. And then clean up, think of tomorrow’s list of groceries and the beginning of his shift at the restaurant, refresh his e-mail for the umpteenth time in the hope of an art commission, stare at Nietzsche some more, smoke a fag and go to back to staring again, but in his bed and at the invisible ceiling this time.

He belatedly realises he is hyperventilating, and has been for some time if the black dots dancing at the edge of his vision are anything to go by. His heart drums too strongly against his ribcage. He drops the book and starts breathing as slowly as he can through his nose, exhaling the air through his mouth, over and over until he stops feeling like his lungs are about to burst from the pressure.

_You can’t keep excusing yourself from your own life like that._

“Shut up,” he grits, tiredly rubbing his eyes. Good heavens. Gavroche could have walked in on him at any moment. He really can’t afford that in front of him. He is the responsible adult here now.

_Éponine has you marked as her next-of-kin, and as the only option suited for Gavroche’s custody._

He knows. It doesn’t make it any easier. The house emptily resonates around him, dark and huge and a cage.

“Pull yourself together, man,” Grantaire mutters to himself as he gets up and makes his way to the kitchen. He needs to do something with his hands, and painting simply doesn’t work these days – he prays it will start again once he is commissioned something. That leaves _croque-monsieurs_ to do, because Grantaire is still a student and eats like one, kid or no kid in the picture.

 

*

 

**06:12 PM**

_so i have a kid_

 

**06:43 PM**

**I’m aware.**

 

**06:45 PM**

**I was told, I mean. Joly told me.**

 

**06:48 PM**

**Are you all right?**

 

**09:01 PM**

_yeah man i’m just peachy. i mean, i always dreamt of inheriting the care of my dead sister’s 14-yo brother and being stuck in bumfuck nowhere right in the middle of my studies. just peachy_

 

**09:07 PM**

_sorry, that was uncalled for_

 

**09:07 PM**

_i’m just tired, i guess_

 

**09:08 PM**

_and to answer your question, not really, no. things are pretty shitty right now_

 

**09:32 PM**

**Don’t worry, it’s fine. I think you’re allowed to crack a little under the pressure. Do you want to talk about it?**

 

**09:34 PM**

_it’s going to sound like a long rant of complaints_

 

**09:35 PM**

**That’s not a no. I would say I’m quite used to them, right? And besides if anyone is allowed to rant and complain a lot it’s you.**

 

**09:36 PM**

… _right_

 

**09:36 PM**

_it’s just that_

 

**09:39 PM**

_idk, i feel like my whole world is crumbling down rn. i mean, ép is dead – which, what the fuck, who gave her the fucking right to begin with?! – and gav is in a really bad place rn except he doesn’t show it bc that kid represses everything like a fucking pro, and i need and have to take care of him bc it’s not like i can leave him, i really can’t do that to either of us, i love him, he’s my brother fgs_

 

**09:41 PM**

_like don’t get me wrong i love that kid to pieces and i want what’s best for him, i really don’t want him to have more of the shitty childhood he’s had so far, but idk if i can make it. joly said i could, he said that i was able to do it and like i trust him, right, but i feel like i’m drowning and idk how long i can stay here before exploding_

 

**09:43 PM**

_and well i mean i’m self-aware enough to know i’m going to strongly resent this situation if a fairy godmother doesn’t suddenly make me love it through the power of magic and unicorns and you can’t take care of a kid when you’re feeling shitty about the circumstances that led you to take care of him in the first place_

 

**09:44 PM**

_besides gav is really emotionally smart on top of being school-smart and he knows i don’t want to be here, so i bet he feels really bad about it and he really doesn’t need that_

 

**09:45 PM**

_omg enjolras what if i fuck him up bc i wasn’t able to behave like a grown-up and take care of him like he deserves_

 

**09:46 PM**

_what if i make things worse for him_

 

**09:49 PM**

…

 

**09:51 PM**

_sorry about the rant_

 

**09:51 PM**

_i warned you though_

 

**09:53 PM**

… **oh, Grantaire.**

 

**09:53 PM**

**Don’t apologise, I’m sorry I didn’t answer at once. I didn’t really know what to say.**

 

**09:54 PM**

_haha if only that could happen irl lol_

 

**09:55 PM**

**It does. Your “rants” tend to leave me speechless for a while.**

 

**09:55 PM**

_wow WHAT_

 

**09:56 PM**

**A speechlessness born of indignation, of course.**

 

**09:56 PM**

_yeah sure, whatever_

 

**09:58 PM**

**I know it’s not worth much but I’m sorry.**

 

**09:59 PM**

_yeah_

 

**10:01 PM**

**You know we’re all here for you, right?**

 

**10:02 PM**

_yeah i know but i mean_

 

**10:03 PM**

_you guys are in paris and i’m here_

 

**10:03 PM**

_you’ll all end up forgetting i even existed once haha_

 

**10:04 PM**

**Of course not! What are you on about? Would you forget Combeferre if he had to move away?**

 

**10:05 PM**

_enjolras_

 

**10:05 PM**

_apollo_

 

**10:05 PM**

_phíltatos_

 

**10:06 PM**

_combeferre is combeferre. i’m me. i’m not combeferre_

 

**10:07 PM**

**Of course you’re different persons, but I’m trying to make you understand we couldn’t forget you, just like we couldn’t forget Ferre even if we tried.**

 

**10:07 PM**

**And stop calling me Apollo.**

 

**10:08 PM**

**What does the last one mean?**

 

**10:09 PM**

_that’s nice of you to say bud_

 

**10:10 PM**

_figure it out my man_

 

**10:11 PM**

**It’s not “nice” Grantaire, it’s true. Didn’t you tell me once that I didn’t “do nice”?**

 

**10:12 PM**

_right_

 

**10:13 PM**

**I’m serious, R.**

 

**10:13 PM**

**Can I call you R?**

 

**10:14 PM**

_yes enjolras you can call me R_

 

**10:15 PM**

_and as we have already established you are always serious_

 

**10:17 PM**

**I wasn’t aware you had such self-esteem issues.**

 

**10:20 PM**

_wow what the FUCK, dude_

 

**10:22 PM**

**I’ve been telling you time and time again that you are valued among the group and that I was ready to come whenever you needed me to, and yet you keep doubting it. I can only assume it is because your self-esteem leaves to be desired.**

 

**10:24 PM**

_i really don’t need to have you psychoanalysing me rn tbh_

 

**10:26 PM**

**I’m sorry if I offended you in any way.**

 

**10:40 PM**

**Courfeyrac explained to me that I was rude and assuming. I’m sorry.**

 

**10:57 PM**

**R?**

 

**11:48 PM**

**For all it’s worth, I don’t think you’re going to be bad for Gavroche. If anything, you two are good for each other.**

 

**00:14 AM**

**Good night, R.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, phíltatos: latin alphabet transliteration of φίλτατος, aka "dearest", "most beloved".  
> Yes R is very queer, very extra and very, very fucked.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the Cortázar quote: "I believe that I do not love you, that I only love the obvious impossibility of loving you. Like the left-hand glove in love with the right hand."

 

 

“Creo que no te quiero, que solamente quiero la imposibilidad tan obvia de quererte. Como el guante izquierdo enamorado de la mano derecha.”

\- Julio Cortázar

 

 

_Then (October, 2014)_

 

Courfeyrac entering the _Musain_ ’s back-room tended to be the equivalent of a golden ray of sun suddenly tearing clouds apart and hugging everything in its soft warmth. Today was no exception.

“Hello everyone! Jehan, love, that dress just _slays_.”

Jehan reddened and beamed back at their friend who stood at the entrance of the room, hands on his hips as if checking the troops’ good morale. Apparently satisfied with what he had seen, he stepped in and behind him appeared a lithe figure Grantaire did not know.

“Darlings, this is Marius Pontmercy, my new flatmate and friend. Codename: cinnamon roll. Anyone who hurts him will suffer dire consequences involving their genitalia.”

“How charming,” murmured Combeferre, nonetheless smiling at Marius and giving the signal for a chorus of “hello Marius!”.

Marius blushed furiously and awkwardly waved at the assembled crowd before entering the room and stumbling over thin air. Courfeyrac caught him, managing to make everyone understand laughter would be most unwelcome. Combeferre stepped forward and engaged Marius in conversation so as to divert attention, and Grantaire watched as everyone slowly made their way to the newcomer to introduce themselves. The man – a boy, almost – was tall and gangly, and had one of those pretty, thin, almost ethereal white boys’ faces ideal for Instagram pictures or dressing up as Rimbaud. Thankfully, his wide and overeager smile, threadbare corduroy trousers and nervous laughter saved him from Grantaire’s critical categorising.

Suddenly, a sharp crash drew everyone’s attention to the entrance of the room. There stood Éponine, her face as pale and motionless as it ever got, her eyes fixed on Marius with the intensity she usually reserved for her coffee on bad mornings or Grantaire when he fucked up on a whole new level (such as: going missing for a whole day because of substance abuse; getting so terribly, mind-numbingly, sickeningly drunk he then spent seven hours of misery curled in a ball in the bathroom, where it would be easier to clean his retching; spending more than his auto-fixated monthly allowance on alcohol; behaving so obnoxiously with the Amis Enjolras actually _insulted_ him; generally being the depressive, alcoholic, loud-mouthed wreck he was these days). The crash had been her mug of coffee hitting the floor and spilling its contents where it had broken in four, thus probably revoking Ép’s hard-earned rights to Louison’s Special Mug Treatment.

“Oh, how are the mighty fallen!” dramatically interjected Grantaire from the corner of the room he was seated at, shaking Éponine out of her paralysis. She blinked, looked down at her feet where the coffee had stained her boots and muttered a vigorous “ _Fuck!_ ” that echoed through the room and prompted Joly’s sudden laughter.

“Right,” Courfeyrac said. “Marius, this is Éponine, badass extraordinaire. Don’t let this fool you, this is the first time I’ve seen her let something fall. Éponine, this is Marius, my new flatmate.”

“We’ve met,” Éponine muttered, resolutely _not_ looking at Marius and rather staring at an invisible but seemingly fascinating point that hovered somewhere over his right shoulder. Marius smiled sweetly and raked a hand through his hair, shuffling next to Courfeyrac as though not knowing what to do with his limbs.

“We have. Hello, Miss Éponine.”

Éponine nodded before looking again at the coffee-scented disaster at her feet. “Well, I’d better clean this up.”

“Get Parnasse to do it for you,” said Jehan, prompting a mock-outraged noise from Enjolras (if Enjolras could do something as pedestrian as humour, Grantaire privately amended).

“Right, so he can dye my laundry green. No, Flower. I’m not suicidal,” she deadpanned, raising an eyebrow when everyone started laughing as if not understanding why, which only made Jehan giggle harder.

As Éponine disappeared down the stairs, the introductions continued. Marius apparently already knew some of the Amis: Bossuet and him had met at law school, though they hadn’t talked much then; and Combeferre treated him with a familiarity that told of a past awkward introduction between boyfriend and flatmate.

“… so the only one missing is Cosette, Enjolras’s sister, she’s got too much work. She should be here next week though,” Courfeyrac ended the tour. Grantaire, true to form, did not get up to say hello.

 

The thing was, Courfeyrac was right. Éponine did not _drop_ things.

Sure, sometimes, things slipped from her hands – a soapy dish she was supposed to rinse _R what the fuck stop throwing the fucking dishes and actually hand them to me_ ; a book jostled out of her hands in a metro wagon filled to the brim with Brooding Parisians; on one memorable occasion, a glass of orange juice she had spilled down herself after Grantaire had made a fool of himself to get a smile out of her, which, in hindsight, may have been one of his proudest moments. Éponine was human, and things slipped from her hands.

But _dropping_ them?

So Grantaire kept an attentive eye on his sister once she had mopped the mess and heavily sat down next to him. He pretended to pretend not to be engrossed by everything Enjolras said or did or _breathed_ next to Marius a few metres away, and Éponine pretended not to notice that Grantaire was only pretending to pretend, which was as far as sibling solidarity could go.

Her face was closed off, more so than usual. Éponine did not by nature have expressive features, but she had slowly relearned to use the basic range of human expressions after Javert had taken her in – though the fact that _Javert_ of all people had taught Éponine _basic human expressions_ was enough of a hint about the emotional non-state she had been in at fourteen. At this instant, however, it seemed she had gone back ten years. Her dark hair fell in a protective curtain around her face, half-hiding it from the rest of the room. After a few minutes, she shook out of her immobility and took out her notes from class. Her final exams were in six months, and Grantaire had seldom seen anyone as focused as she was on getting the job they were training for. Or would not have, if it had not been for the gang of overachievers the back-room of the _Musain_ was brimming with.

The real meetings, the ones with students from all over Paris and planning for rallies and setting up protest campaigns against police violences, happened every week on Thursday nights. The rest of the time, the Amis – the core group, which Grantaire apparently belonged to, though he could not fathom how nor why – usually met at the _Musain_ to get their work done, spend time together _and_ get work done for the organisation because overachieving was part of their description on social media, or should have been. Grantaire did not understand how people with such brilliant and demanding studies – alternating between law school, med school, political studies and double-courses in literature and obscure languages – or equally demanding work schedules – Feuilly, mainly, who volunteered in an organisation that helped illegal immigrants and had to work part-time at a bar to set food on the table – could find time to run a club that had all the requisites for a future political party if they put their mind to it. This was a Wednesday evening, which meant preparing for the next day’s reunion but also chatting together and getting uni work done.

“Hola. ¿Todo bien?” Feuilly asked Éponine, sliding on the chair next to her. Grantaire started doodling the room on his sketchbook to at least look like he wasn’t intruding on their conversation. Éponine looked up and gave a small smile to Feuilly.

“Hola. Sí, sí, todo bien. ¿Tú?”

“Trabajando,” Feuilly shrugged, “pero no es nada nuevo. Tengo que contarte lo que me pasó con una señora libiana esta mañana…”

Grantaire focused on his drawing and let their conversation fade into the background, Éponine’s Colombian accent blending with Feuilly’s Madrileño one.

 

“No but really, what kind of dude start waxing poetry about a blonde he saw in the park in a room full of strangers?” Grantaire laughed that night, rinsing the dishes and not thinking about the final project he was supposed to _be_ thinking about. “I thought Enjolras was going to have an aneurysm.”

Éponine grunted from somewhere behind him.

“Oh, and, by the way, how do you know the guy? Because that was one hell of a reaction, Ép.”

Another grunt. Grantaire ran the pan under the water one last time and turned around, drying his hands on his paint-splattered jeans. “Oi.”

Éponine looked up from her notes and threw him a dark look. “Fuck off, R. I’m working.”

“Answering my question really will take you less time and energy than it’s going to take listening to me until you give up, Ép. Easy cost-benefit analysis.”

Éponine sighed and scrubbed her eyes. Grantaire poured himself a finger of cheap scotch while waiting for her to speak. “So?”

“Used to bump into him in one of the places I went training. Guess he just lived there.”

“Guess he doesn’t anymore. It’s strange, how Courfeyrac and Ferre don’t move in together. Chetta said it’s because Ferre and Enjolras are the most co-dependent people she’s ever met,” he said, ignoring the pang of longing-sadness-jealousy that writhed under his ribs.

“And that’s your concern why exactly?”

“How come you dropped your mug?” he deflected, swallowing the scotch and making a face at it – that shit was _bad_. He poured himself another finger nonetheless. Éponine pursed her lips and went back to her notes.

“Funny how you’re staring at the page without reading it,” Grantaire said then, because he was a meddling little shit and never respected boundaries unless they were screamed at his face, which incidentally was how Éponine and him had learned to live together in the nine years they had known each other. Ép huffed and leaned back in her chair, meeting his eyes for the first time. The vulnerability in her face took Grantaire aback – he had been expecting snark, or a dismissal, or an easy truth, but not _this_ , whatever this was going to end up being. She opened her mouth, closed it without a sound, huffed again, shrugged, looked at the darkness beyond the kitchen’s windowpane.

That was her answer, and for Grantaire, it was enough.

“Ép, do you have a crush on the guy?”

She stiffened, did not say anything.

“But how? I mean, how many times have you met him to like him that much? Like, what happened? How long has this been going on? What –”

“Oh my god, Grantaire, I don’t _KNOW_!” Éponine exploded, throwing her hands up. She got up and started pacing the small space between the kitchen table and the flat’s entry. “ _I. Don’t. Know._ I – we just met all the time, because apparently he was out of a job and his grand-father kicked him out or some shit? And, he was so nice to me, I don’t know,” she lamely stopped, staying still at the kitchen’s entrance, looking almost defeated. “Actually, I was working up the nerve to ask him on a date, because I haven’t been to his sector for ages but my instructor is sending me there tomorrow. Guess this spares me having to find he’s moved out.” She shrugged. “Tough luck, I guess.”

Grantaire blinked, downed his scotch, then blinked again.

“Well, fuck me. I wasn’t expecting that. Who’d’ve guessed you’d fall for the nicest, most harmless guy on Earth?”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey, it’s chill. I mean, welcome to the club, I can give you a tour, but it’s chill.”

“I really hope you didn’t just compare me to your pathetic situation with Mister Goldilocks.”

“Oi, you like Enjolras!”

“Yeah, but not like _you_ do. I’m still light-years away from your situation, R, thank god.”

Grantaire gave her the middle finger and started pouring himself a third glass.

“Okay, you’ve had enough,” she interjected, closing the distance between herself and the table in two steps.

“Mind your own damn business, Éponine.”

“I am. This is where I live, and drunks aren’t welcome. Give me the bottle.”

Grantaire looked up defiantly, but sighed at her expression and handed her the bottle. Before he could take the glass and empty it, she reached out and swallowed the content, grimacing immediately after.

“Fuck’s sake, I don’t know how you keep drinking this shit, it’s disgusting.”

He shrugged. “It’s like everything. You get used to it.”

Éponine raised an eyebrow and put the bottle away.

“And, you know,” Grantaire added out of the blue, “he might never see that blonde again. You still have a chance.”

“Fuck off.”

 

 

_Now (March, 2017)_

 

Grantaire pushes open the entrance door to find Gavroche already sitting in the kitchen, ostensibly doing his homework.

“Sup, sparrow,” he greets, toeing off his old trainers and shuffling out of his coat before getting in and setting the grocery bag near Gavroche.

“Sup, R.”

The kid barely looks up from his maths.

“How was your day?”

Gavroche answers with a non-committal grunt and keeps scribbling weird maths stuff in his notebook – and thank whoever’s upstairs he doesn’t need help with _that_ , because Grantaire would be fucked if he had to lend a hand in that particular field. He opens his mouth to try and get an actual answer but suddenly feels that would make him more of an annoying middle-aged parent than anything else; so he wisely shuts up and starts replenishing the fridge, one grocery at a time.

“So, what do you want for dinner tonight? Pasta or pasta?” he asks after he is done. Gavroche answers without looking up.

“We’ve eaten pasta three times this week already.”

“Right. Um… pizza then? I can call for pizza.”

Gavroche sighs at his equations. “Can we have, like, a healthy dinner? I don’t know, vegetables and shit?”

Grantaire stares at the kid, speechless, feeling like he has been punched in the gut. Gavroche could not express any more clearly how _bad_ Grantaire has been doing at this whole parenting stuff. If he weren’t twenty-six and in charge of a teenager, he would curl up in a corner with a bottle _right the fuck now_.

Instead, he takes a small breath and tries to stretch his lips into a kind of smile.

“Sure, bud. I’ll whip us up a ratatouille in no time. Rice suits you?”

He takes Gavroche’s nod as the only answer he is going to get and starts looking for a ratatouille recipe on the internet.

Dammit. He forgot to buy zucchini.

 

*

 

**08:35 PM**

_hey_

 

**08:36 PM**

_sorry about yesterday_

 

**08:37 PM**

_i kinda overreacted_

**08:42 PM**

**Yes, you did.**

 

**08:43 PM**

**Not that it wasn’t normal!**

 

**08:43 PM**

**I mean, I was rude and nosy, albeit truthful.**

 

**08:44 PM**

**I mean, I was honest, which is no excuse.**

 

**08:44 PM**

**MY POINT IS that I’m sorry I was rude and I hope you’re all right.**

**08:47 PM**

… _you baffle me_

**08:48 PM**

**What? Why?**

**08:50 PM**

_only you could be so good at speaking and yet a disaster when it comes to normal human interactions_

**08:51 PM**

**I know.**

 

**08:51 PM**

**That’s what Courf and Ferre have been saying for the past, oh, six years?**

 

**08:52 PM**

**I’m sorry though.**

**08:53 PM**

_it’s okay dude, i mean, i overreacted too_

 

**08:54 PM**

_call me sensitive_

**08:55 PM**

**R, I think it’s rather normal for you to be sensitive right now.**

**08:57 PM**

_uh yeah no bud let’s not do this whole psychoanalysis stuff again okay?_

**08:58 PM**

**Of course, I’m sorry.**

**09:00 PM**

_it’s okay dude_

 

**09:01 PM**

_that was nice_

**09:02 PM**

**What?**

**09:03 PM**

_what you said about gav and i_

**09:04 PM**

**Well, I mean. I don’t know either of you half as well as I should like, but that’s my opinion.**

**09:05 PM**

_WOW_

 

**09:05 PM**

_was that a LOTR quote?_

 

**09:06 PM**

_can i scheenshot this for jehan? she’ll be so happy i promise_

**09:07 PM**

**Yes, it was.**

 

**09:08 PM**

**And please do.**

**09:10 PM**

_okay enjolras let’s be serious here_

 

**09:10 PM**

… **I thought you didn’t do serious.**

**09:11 PM**

_depends on the person_

 

**09:12 PM**

_ANYWAY_

 

**09:13 PM**

_honestly. who do you love more. feuilly or jehan._

 

**09:14 PM**

_because i feel that’s where the real group dynamic lies_

**09:15 PM**

**Grantaire. Would you ask Bossuet whether he prefers Star Wars or Star Trek?**

**09:16 PM**

… _no._

 

**09:16 PM**

_(never again)_

**09:17 PM**

**There you go.**

**09:18 PM**

_oh_

 

**09:18 PM**

_do courferre know?_

**09:20 PM**

**That they’re only second favourites? They do.**

 

**09:21 PM**

**isjkaoisalx**

**09:21 PM**

_?_

**09:23 PM**

**hey** **love** **this is courf and yes, we know, and we try to cope,** **neither of us being a red-haired transgender poet or a** **moroccan** **superman**

 

**09:24 PM**

**oh btw enj has something to tell you and you should pressure him a bit**

 

**09:24 PM**

**i hope you’re all right, sweetie**

 

**09:24 PM**

**dammitendeskasa**

 

**09:25 PM**

**I got my phone back.**

**09:25 PM**

… _right_

 

**09:26 PM**

_so you’ve got something to tell me?_

**09:27 PM**

**I…**

 

**09:28 PM**

**Dammit, Courfeyrac.**

 

**09:29 PM**

**Yes.**

 

**09:29 PM**

**It’s about Cosette.**

 

**09:30 PM**

**She doesn’t want to bother either of you so she hasn’t asked, but she’s been wanting to tell you something and I think it’s eating her up?**

 

**09:30 PM**

**She’s going to hate me – and Courf – for bringing this up now.**

 

**09:31 PM**

**I just think… you could use that talk too?**

**09:33 PM**

_well honestly i don’t know what to say_

 

**09:34 PM**

_i mean cosette and i aren’t that close_

 

**09:35 PM**

_but tbh i don’t think i’d mind talking to her_

 

**09:36 PM**

_why would it bother gav though?_

**09:37 PM**

**She meant to come down.**

**09:38 PM**

… _oh_

 

**09:39 PM**

_isn’t she like, too busy?_

**09:40 PM**

**I don’t know.**

 

**09:41 PM**

**I don’t think telling you was a good idea.**

**09:42 PM**

_look, it’s fine_

 

**09:43 PM**

_i’ll just ring her up one of these days_

 

**09:44 PM**

_don’t worry about it_

**09:45 PM**

**All right. Just please don’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with.**

**09:45 PM**

_enjolras. i find life uncomfortable._

**09:47 PM**

**That… that was a joke, right?**

**09:47 PM**

_yeah, a joke_

 

**09:48 PM**

_look dude, i’m a not-so-high functioning depressive dude with addictive tendencies_

 

**09:49 PM**

_this is my kind of humour_

**09:50 PM**

**As long as it’s humour, I don’t mind.**

 

**09:51 PM**

**But please tell someone if you’re doing badly.**

 

**09:51 PM**

**You know you can talk to me. I won’t judge you.**

**09:52 PM**

_strangely, i think you are right_

 

**09:53 PM**

_but don’t worry_

 

**09:54 PM**

_things are pretty awful right now but i’m not suicidal_

 

**09:54 PM**

_and yes that is a positive thing_

**09:55 PM**

**Of course it is!**

**10:00 PM**

_okay so i just remembered_

 

**10:01 PM**

_i’ve got something to do_

 

**10:02 PM**

_and i’m going to have to focus on that thing_

 

**10:03 PM**

_so bye_

**10:04 PM**

**Good night R.**

 

**10:05 PM**

**Good luck on your thing.**

 

**11:08 PM**

**Hello everyone, this is a group message because my phone refuses to open whatsapp. I just sent you all the link to a series of articles and petitions you should read concerning the reception of migrants in France and the EU. We are starting to set arrangements with a few associations to help them and spread their message among the students. As you all know, the referent on these grounds is Feuilly, so any further questions should go to him! (See Ferre, I’m delegating now.) Good night, comrades!**

 

*****

 

Grantaire snorts at Enjolras’s last message before re-focusing on the screen of his laptop, where the little bar has been blinking in the empty mail-case for the last hour. He hasn’t found a title for his message, and the content is the hardest he has had to put into words in his life. He seldom has a problem with words – he opens his mouth and they flow out, not precise, organised, square and purposeful as Enjolras’s, but bubbling and shapeless, rambling and nonsensical, irritating. If he wants to say something, he says it – then again, not out of some sense of purpose, but Grantaire will admit, at least to himself and to his sister’s voice that is constantly snarking in his mind, that he cares more than he should about not caring at all.

But then again, he has never had to tell someone their sister was dead.

Éponine had been careful, oh-so careful, with absolutely everything in her life. The notary, for once. The life insurance, for another, which has left a pretty hefty sum to attend to Gavroche’s needs in the next year or so. Even her e-mail was programmed to send Grantaire all her passwords in case of an accident – she had not left anything to chance. She had had Gavroche for a little more than a year and a half, and she had made sure everything would be as fine as it could for him. It makes Grantaire’s heart break a little – he feels like he is constantly re-discovering his sister, a part of her he had not seen, or not recognised as such. Éponine taking care of Grantaire had always been what she did – just as much as he took care of her, or tried to; the two of them against the rest of the world, after Javert and before the Amis, and even then; it had always been Éponine-and-Grantaire, Grantaire-and-Éponine. But Éponine taking such care of another person, like a mother, was… not new, but unexpected. He should have seen it coming – seen _her_ coming, the person she had wanted to become and had strived to be: social worker, sister, surrogate parent at twenty-three… It had happened right before Grantaire’s eyes, and he had not _thought_ about it, not even once, even if his heart had known.

Grantaire closes his eyes and forces air out of his nose. He feels like his chest is one enormous bruise. He is so _proud_ , so immensely _proud_ of his sister; he feels that he has never consciously loved and admired her just as much as he does now…

… now that she is dead and buried and out of ear-shot.

“Hey, R.”

He looks up to see Gavroche standing in the door-frame between the living-room and the night quarters.

“Hey bud. What’s up?”

Gavroche shifts a little, but his hesitation does not come through his voice when he speaks again.

“’M sorry for earlier this evening. I was a prick.”

Grantaire feels a strong urge to get up and wrap his arms around the kid. But he doesn’t; he’ll wait until Gavroche comes to him. Instead, he smiles a little.

“That’s fine, Gav. You were right. We hadn’t eaten vegetables in far too long. Keep calling me out like that and we might actually have a healthy lifestyle.”

Gavroche chuckles and runs a hand in his hair, which is getting really long.

“You’ll soon be able to braid that,” Grantaire points out. Gavroche grins – it’s fleeting and pale, but there.

“Yeah, I know. Jehan and Bahorel showed me a ton of stuff to do with long hair, I can’t wait!”

Grantaire snorts and then waves at the kid when he leaves for bed. Enjolras might be right, after all.

With a weary sigh, Grantaire turns back to his computer. The cursor is still blinking like an accusation. He draws a deep breath and plunges in.

 

*

 

_Azelma,_

_I’m sorry you have to hear from me in these circumstances. I would have written sooner but I only just got your address._

_Éponine died a month and three days ago in a motorcycle accident. She is buried in the main cemetery on O*** island, where she used to live with Gavroche. She wrote me down as the kid’s guardian and I accepted him as my charge. We are living in their house._

_I hope you are doing all right, wherever you might be. I am enclosing our address should you wish to drop by and visit Gavroche and Ép._

_Yours,_

_Grantaire Louis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to leave feedback !


	7. Chapter 7

“We live, as we dream – alone.”

 _Heart of Darkness_ , Joseph Conrad

 

_Now_

 

Grantaire thinks in layers.

There are layers to the world: to light, to darkness, to smell and shapes. Some you can peel off, or at least see through; others remain in place, hiding everything but the certainty more is being kept out of sight. There are layers to the world, and layers to how one perceives it, and even more to how one expresses this perception. Each canvas Grantaire paints, each picture he takes is a layer of this perception and carries layers itself. Needless to say there are layers to people as well. Ones that slowly fade as you grow closer, others that firmly remain in place – some you cannot take off if you want to remain your own person. Grantaire used to believe Éponine had few layers left where he was concerned – he was convinced that, fundamentally, he knew how she thought and felt, knew the hues of her emotions with enough certainty to paint them had these colours been invented.

He is starting to realise he was quite wrong, and says so to Jehan, who huffs a laugh from the other side of the country.

“What makes you say that?”

“I… I don’t know. Everything she’s taken care of. I got a call from a contractor yesterday. She was going to renovate the house, divide it in two and sell the other half.”

“Well, she had plans, R.”

“Jehan, dude, I’ve been trying to make her sell that house for seven years. She was going to do all this without even telling me first!”

“… I don’t think that’s even legal. You did own half of it.”

“That’s my point! I feel like she’s been hiding a lot from me and now –”

“– now you can’t even have an answer?”

“Exactly,” Grantaire deflates, kicking a pebble on the pavement. His bus passes him by on the left, but he doesn’t care. Gavroche is at swimming practice and won’t be home for another two hours, and Grantaire needs to walk his onion smell away. He is also starting to get used to calling his best friends while coming home from his new job. “Anyway. It doesn’t matter much. I just wish I had some answers.” He sighs, looking up at the sky – still a clear blue, at least an hour before nightfall. Days are lengthening, the end of March is in sight – not there yet, but just a little longer and there might be leaves on the tips of the branches. Just a little longer. “I’m just left with her life on my hands, her plans, her kid –”

“– _your_ brother –”

“… my _brother_ , her too-big house –”

“– _your_ adoptive father’shouse –” Jehan interrupts again, firmly this time. Grantaire lets out a laugh.

“You’re right. I know you’re right.” A pause, where he watches his breath, white plumes in the blue air. “What do I do about the contractor?”

“Grantaire, do I fucking look like I know what to do with a contractor? I don’t even know how to drive!” exclaims Jehan, eliciting something like a laugh in the room she must be in. Maybe she’s at the Musain already. Or with Montparnasse.

“I don’t either, that’s my whole point!” Grantaire exclaims back. Jehan snorts. “How’s Montparnasse?” he asks, changing the subject. Jehan doesn’t answer at once, but Grantaire barely has time to worry before she answers.

“We broke up.”

“ _What_?”

“It’s fine, R. We thought it was for the best.”

“But why?”

“Mostly because he’s been getting into some serious shit I really don’t agree with. We talked about it, he said he wasn’t going to compromise, and I thought that well, if you can’t compromise then what’s the point, you know?”

Suddenly, she sounds smaller and less brilliant; like Autumn when all the leaves are gone but winter isn’t there yet. Just brown and cold.

“I… I’m sorry, love. When did that happen?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“But why didn’t you tell me before?”

“R, you’ve got your own stuff to deal with, come on.”

“But Jehan, if you don’t tell me shit and I do, this can’t work. You’ve got to believe I’m here for you too,” he presses on, with something like urgency in his chest, and isn’t this a bit ridiculous, twenty-six and theorising friendship like a teenager, but this is important, because he suddenly feels Jehan slipping through his fingers with her Autumn-like, quiet heartbreak. “I need you, but I need you whole, with your problems and your ranting –”

“– you’re the one who rants in this relationship, R.”

“I’m the one who rants in any relationship, Flower,” he says, borrowing Éponine’s nickname for Jehan from when they were kind-of-together. “That’s not the point. We’re sharing, this isn’t a one-way street, okay?”

“Okay, R. Okay. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

“Okay, sorry. Dammit, I’m sor– okay.”

Grantaire laughs and Jehan laughs too, and maybe they’re going to be all right, Grantaire thinks.

“But how are you doing?” he asks, a bit too soft.

“Fine. The others are really nice. I’ve been crashing on Chetta’s sofa every other night. Bossuet watched the entire season one of Star Trek with me. Enjolras even said that if I wasn’t comfortable with the Musain he and Combeferre could look up another meeting place. I think he loves me.”

“… honestly? I think he does,” Grantaire chuckles.

“Or, well, I don’t know. What I do know is that he misses you.”

“Enjolras? Miss me?” he laughs, a tad forcedly. “I don’t think so.”

 

 

_Before (January, 2016)_

 

The day Grantaire got out of his fifth biweekly therapy session, he found Enjolras standing ramrod straight in his scarlet coat, intently staring at a poster that advertised free psychological services for all students. He turned around at the sound of the door clicking shut behind Grantaire.

"I think we should make sure this information does reach everyone, and then draw a list of trans-friendly centres. Students don't know enough about this."

Grantaire simply stared at him. The newest cuts on his left thigh started to itch. Enjolras seemed to feel his astonishment, because he completely angled his body towards him and lowered his shoulders. Self-conscious body language, like a circus tamer in front of a starved lion.

"Everyone else was busy, so I volunteered to come and get you. I should have sent you a message to warn you."

Grantaire shook his head and made his way to the front door, beckoning Enjolras with a small tilt of the head. His usual post-therapy aphasia was straining under Enjolras's mute gravitational pull, but he still couldn't utter a word. The other followed him into the street and the cold, grey evening air. 

"You left this at the Musain yesterday," Enjolras said after a minute or two. Nietzsche's _Birth of Tragedy_ , dog-eared and annotated. How fitting, Grantaire thought, silently taking the book without touching his hands. "What is it about?"

"Us," muttered Grantaire.

"Pardon?"

"Dionysus," he amended, more loudly. "Art. How order is merely the way Greeks had found to stand chaos."

"I'm afraid I don't follow," said Enjolras as they took the avenue southwards, towards the Seine. Grantaire felt a spark of something and then started explaining, gaining volume and momentum until his hands drew invisible shapes in the air.

"... in short, you could say that art is what makes life liveable."

Enjolras nodded and remained quiet for a while as they crossed the river, whose black skin danced under the public lights' orange glow; they shivered like brilliant blots of paint on dark water. The cathedral grew before them, illuminated stone against the night sky, solid and hieratic. "That’s a beautiful analysis," he said at last. Grantaire hummed through his chattering teeth. "Apollo and Dionysus. Not a pair an ignorant like me would have thought of," Enjolras admitted with a laugh. Grantaire's heart grew painfully small.

"Why's that?"

"Lack of perspective, or ignorance, I suppose. Sometimes you don't see things because you haven't learned to. Isn't that the basis of visual arts?"

"It is," Grantaire admitted with a hint of surprise. 

"Do you like Nietzsche? In general?"

"I do. But he's dangerous. He writes too well, convinces you too swiftly and seems too easily understandable. People don't look beneath the surface when they read him. He's tricky.” He threw a glance at Enjolras and saw, surprised, that Enjolras was watching him with a keen interest. “Haven't you read anything of his?”

"No. I don't go beyond politics and morals in philosophy."

"I can't say I'm surprised," laughed Grantaire as they left the island and crossed to the other bank. The Musain was two minutes away, and he decided to ask the question that had been insistently running around his head for half an hour. "Ap- Enjolras," he amended. "I know for a fact that both Prouvaire and Bahorel were free this evening." He watched Enjolras – would rather watch Enjolras than the pavement, relying on muscle memory not to stumble on the dislodged cobblestones and anchoring his eyes on Enjolras's tidelessness – and saw him shrug, something hesitant about him, as though marble could melt. 

"I walked us back to the Musain," remarked Enjolras instead of answering. Stating a fact; sharing the inevitable pull of these streets, where all their pieces slotted into place again, even with a closed café and an icy night. 

"It's all right. I'll just take the metro home from here."

"That wasn't very smart of me."

"No worries. I'm a consenting adult. You should say you subjected yourself to inane pseudo-philosophical chatter."

"It was interesting," protested Enjolras, facing Grantaire at the entrance of the lightless street. He looked about to say something else but closed his mouth shut again. No tide, but waves; a lake, perhaps. Pushing and pulling, no moon in sight. Almost a gentle lapping, had a winter night allowed gentleness. "I'll walk you to the metro." This time, Grantaire was the one who had to bite something back; a dismissal, an ironical coda to Enjolras's efficient kindness. Enjolras was like fire, Grantaire often thought; he was scorching, and Grantaire stood near him as though with smoke in his eyes and in his throat, choking. Tiresome eggshells to walk on in a cutting night. When they said goodnight at the white-lit entrance of the metro, Grantaire felt that he had missed something.

 

*

 

A tear-gas grenade exploded a few metres ahead; someone screamed. Around Grantaire, people produced bottles out of their backpacks and sprayed their mouth-kerchiefs with water to breathe through; some hoods were shoved down on heads, a few swimming goggles were snapped on. Most of the young protesters were dressed in dark clothes, with the notable exception of one Enjolras, with his usual red hoodie despite the remaining cold. Grantaire swore under his breath. The man would get himself killed one day.

The new labour law had been presented to the Assembly a month before, and hell had been raised just as soon by every syndicate, with informal political groups such as the ABC immediately relaying the alarm. Enjolras and Combeferre had spent hours on social media, breaking down the law’s terms with the help of their own home-made legal department and calling the people to arms – or rather the Parisian youth to the streets. As per usual, the ABC’s strong and loud presence on the student left-wing political scene had given the core group a mountain of organisational work to get through as weeks passed, since most of them (read: everyone except Bahorel, who took any and all opportunities to go against the cops) wanted to avoid the series of almost-illegal student morning demonstrations to turn violent.

It was becoming clear that they had spectacularly failed on this aspect of things.

The police had waited for the boulevard to become narrower and with fewer side-streets to charge the five hundred-ish students, who were heading for the spot where the official protest was supposed to start within the next hour or so. The ABC’s members were scattered in the mass, with a higher concentration at the front, where loose pseudo-anarchist teenagers were sure to try and break all the public property they could get their hands on, as well as goad the police into attacking them. “We don’t need them to fuck up again,” had emphasised Courfeyrac three days before. “The media keep bringing up images of young protesters damaging public buses and breaking into bank offices. As much as I don’t disagree with the latter, this is giving the movement bad publicity.” They all knew it was the risk with unofficial demonstrations, but were willing to try nonetheless, and currently contemplated their latest failure through the rising fumes. Black police helmets glittered ahead in the pale sunlight; a yell further on the left – Feuilly’s voice. Grantaire elbowed his way forward and reached Enjolras.

“Enjolras!” he shouted over the din. “You have to get out!”

Enjolras turned around and blankly stared at Grantaire for a second before a wave of recognition crashed in his eyes like a light-bulb turned on.

“We can’t! They got Feuilly and Bahorel! I don’t know where Cosette is either!” he yelled back. By one of these inexplicable movements that occur in crowds, an ebb-and-flow of pressed bodies, Grantaire and Enjolras suddenly found themselves in the middle of the throng of students, a little further away from the menacing wall of plastic shields and blind masks.

“Cosette will be fine, she’s with Marius and Jehan! But you’ve already got a criminal record! You can’t risk another arrest!” Enjolras started shaking his head in denial and Grantaire dimly heard himself say something he thought he would have to be paid to ever utter: “Think of the cause and fucking _get out of here,_ Enjolras!!!”

Enjolras remained perfectly still for a moment, as a rock in the middle of a strong river. Suddenly, he shook himself and nodded briskly to Grantaire. He grabbed his wrist and started diagonally forcing his way through the mob, somehow opening a way between the bodies. “You’re right!” he shouted back over his shoulder. “We got extraction points and teams planned out anyway!”, Grantaire being part of none, since he seldom came to actual protests. But Bossuet’s bruised face from the prior demonstration (after he had decided to follow Joly, who had himself chosen to go with Musichetta, since _she_ was just as vocal about everything as Enjolras) had kicked something deep in him; something like fear, and admiration, and even the tiniest bit of desire to feel the energy that must have run through the crowd. And there he was, in the middle of it, heart beating with exhilaration and another little something resembling worry that the man in red should be hurt. Though even if he were, he thought, no-one could see he was bleeding. He was always so _red_.

Enjolras managed the impossible and got them out. The boulevard continued without any attending street on their side nor on the other. The police had effectively trapped them; they would not arrest everyone, but the student leaders and the anarchists were easily identifiable, and they would take as many of them as they could to the station. Grantaire muttered a string of obscenities when he saw that the wall of shields had gotten closer. His eyes stung more and more, and even his humid neckerchief had stopped being enough against the gases. Yet Enjolras looked as composed and unruffled as ever, his eyes barely blood-shot. “Come on,” he said, dragging Grantaire against the flow of people, as close to the buildings as possible. “I have the access code to one of these doors!”

Five minutes and twenty-five metres later, they stumbled, breathless, into the hall of one of the buildings that lined the boulevard. Enjolras led Grantaire into a small courtyard paved with uneven cobblestones.

“And now?”

“Now we wait until it’s over. An hour or two, at the most.”

“Don’t you want to be at Bastille when the official protest begins?” asked Grantaire, nonplussed.

Enjolras sighed, took off his humid (red) neckerchief and sat on an upturned pail, wringing the unhappy piece of cloth between his restless hands.

“I do. I have to.” His mouth become a thin, firm line. “I’ll start texting everyone to see if they’re all right. And then…” he shrugged and got his phone out. “One thing at a time.”

Grantaire leaned against the opposite wall and watched him a little before the idea came to him. Getting his phone out as well, he asked: “What address is this again?”

A few minutes later, as Enjolras was frantically texting Combeferre about Feuilly and Bahorel’s whereabouts, Grantaire let out a small sound of triumph that immediately got the blonde’s attention.

“What happened?”

“What happened, my dearest Apollo,” Grantaire started, ignoring Enjolras’s look of annoyance at the nickname, “is that Montparnasse may boast all he want, but _I_ am the mafia lord here.”

“Your point, Grantaire.”

“My point is that I know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows a dude our age, more or less, who lives in this very building, sixth floor.”

“Oh, brilliant. Now we can uselessly wait somewhere warm at a stranger’s,” dryly snarked Enjolras.

“Your lack of insight appals me.”

“Your _point_ , Grantaire,” snapped Enjolras. Grantaire threw him a shit-eating grin and resettled more comfortably against the wall. All in all, March skies and sore throats, exasperating Enjolras still was a pleasant activity.

“It means that we can get changed with borrowed clothes. It means, oh Alcibiades, that you can get out of here unnoticed and be at Bastille on time.”

Enjolras stared at him with surprise – perhaps even wonder, a little, or that was just Grantaire’s wishful thinking – before getting up and dusting off his erstwhile-black trousers. Once he seemed moderately satisfied with the state of his clothing, he looked back at Grantaire and nodded once.

“Sixth floor it is, then.”

 

 

_Now_

 

March is almost melting into April when Grantaire finally gets Cosette’s call. They spend two hours talking to each other on the phone; at one point, Grantaire has to leave the house where Gavroche has invited a few friends and walk all the way to the sea as he receives the downpour of Cosette’s own grief and the story of her dead-born love. He would resent her, he would; carrying another’s pain when your own is already drowning you is enough to send anyone running to the hills. But as Cosette tells him of coming down to the island to spend her last two-week break with Éponine, as she tells him of the time she spent choosing that bloody bottle of shampoo because she knew Éponine would like it and she _wanted_ her to smell that way; as she tells him how seeing Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet had filled her with the hope that they would eventually figure it out, Marius and Éponine and her, long distance and old aches and hard pasts be _damned_ , Grantaire feels that he really, completely, absolutely missed who Éponine had become since she had left Paris.

Honestly, he would like to die just a little.

At one point, he realises Cosette has stopped talking and is just sobbing, somewhere in a little student room in Paris. The sand screeches under his feet. It is the end of winter; something has to give.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

 _Not give **into** your asshole tendencies, dammit, man_ , he thinks at himself as soon as he hears himself ask. Cosette draws a sharp inhale, but, when she answers, her voice is steady.

“I hear what you’re not saying. You’re right, it’s selfish. I shouldn’t have called.” Grantaire hums non-committally. “But I. I think that you were closer to Éponine than any of us, and she was your sister, and I think that if someone has the right to end up with all her pieces and all her story it’s you. I thought that’s what I would have wanted for Enjolras. But maybe I was wrong.”

The ocean crashes in Grantaire’s left ear, and Paris cars honk in his right one. No-one should be that clear-sighted, he thinks about the girl breathing their hurt in and out, in and out in the shell of his ear. Something starts shifting then, a slow glint of sunlight on steely water, Éponine’s face becoming neat again.

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” he finally lets out, and Cosette sighs, hearing the admission that she did well, as wrong as it may have seemed at first. Maybe being Enjolras’s sister enables her to hear all the unsaid under the sharp glances and the small smiles. Or maybe her too-big heart catches every whiff of feeling floating around her. Neither of them continues; they do not say how off-kilter they are, how one sheet of black ice threw their future sideways.

“I shouldn’t come down,” Cosette says at last, matter-of-factly.

“Right. You shouldn’t.”

They say goodbye and hang up as Grantaire makes his way back home. He is about to turn into their street when he feels a sudden impulse and keeps walking ten more minutes until he reaches the graveyard. Night is falling as he pushes the gate open.

This is the first time he has come back.

“Couldn’t you have told me?” is the first thing he says when he gets near the grave. He sighs and sits down on it. “Honestly Ép, if you were here I’d be _pissed_ at you.” It may almost be April, but the nights are still cold and the ocean exhales a mean breeze. He shivers and draws his coat around him. Uncharacteristically, he feels he doesn’t have anything to say, as brimming with words as he may be. “I just didn’t know I had a sister-in-law. And a brother-in-law for that matter. An almost-one.” In the wind, the trees' bare twigs make a wooden flutter. “I just wish you’d told me,” he murmurs at last. If she were there, Éponine would huff and kick a few pebbles, bend down and pretend to clean up Javert’s slab. She would tell him to fuck off and mind his own damn business, and he would push and push and push until she yelled and dropped the truth like a bomb. Maybe not the most functional way to do things, but it had worked for years. He feels tears prickling his eyes, but stubbornly does not let them fall. “I just wish I’d known you were on your way to being happy.”

He is getting up to leave when he sees it, and promptly facepalms at his utter lack of observancy. A brightly-coloured, visibly fresh flower bouquet right there under his nose, with a white heart-shaped beach pebble under it on the stone slab. The bouquet could be a neighbour's or a friend's; but the pebble only points to one person. Gavroche. So he has been visiting Éponine's grave all this time, keeping it nice and clean, buying flowers with his own pocket money. Grantaire's heart painfully squeezes in his chest as he stares at the whole thing before hurrying away. 

He has a boy to hug; he has a kid to finally be a big brother to.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's short and full of pompous philosophy shit, but I just got out of four months of gruelling work to get into the school I wanted. Sorry for the delay; consider me back to the land of the living. And don't forget do drop a comment, they honestly make me write faster. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of depression. Note that I am basing it on my own experience, which doesn't mean it universally fits everyone's struggle with it.

“How odd, that I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.”

\- D.F. Wallace,  _The pale king_

 

_Now (April 2017)_

 

The problem with the Fauchelevent siblings is that there are two of them. So when Cosette says she isn’t coming down and Grantaire agrees (because she is not going cross-country to sit on a tomb), there is still Enjolras who pulls up in front of the house on the dawn of April.

If he is honest with himself, Grantaire may have hoped for it, but he had not seen it coming.

He and Enjolras have talked a lot, texted a lot, called each other, been in contact like they had never been when both lived in Paris. It feels like a dam has broken; like absences have made everything sharper, like Enjolras has gotten good at helping others with life when its blows come down too hard. Or perhaps, Joly points out to him, they have been slowly getting there for some time now, one step at a time, with every minute spent talking and _really_ listening to the other. Joly is full of shit, Grantaire thinks, but the adult voice in his head kind of agrees with him, so he doesn’t say anything.

The point is that the red Clio rolls into the house’s front yard on a bright April Saturday morning, having announced its arrival exactly half an hour earlier. Enjolras isn’t alone in the car: Jehan, Musichetta and Bossuet are there too, the latter wearing a wide grin as he gets out and sees Grantaire’s lovely I-literally-just-woke-up face. Gavroche pushes his brother aside and leaps into Chetta’s arms. The kid was probably in the loop before Grantaire himself: he woke him up ten minutes before their friends arrived with a “Yo, R, check your phone and wash your teeth, your man is coming”. Doubts about his relation with Éponine would definitely be dispelled if there still were any: they’re both little shits (and so is Grantaire, but he just feels like _plain_ shit at waking up right now).

He has hastily put on a pair of paint-stained jeans and a shapeless hoodie, and hates himself for not thinking about deodorant when he sees Enjolras climbing out of the driver’s seat. He suddenly becomes acutely aware – at least more so than usual – of his crooked nose, his asymmetrical eyes, his too-big eyebrows, his mop of black curls. His guts give a weird, anatomically impossible twist but he busies himself saying hi to the others. Or, really, more like _What’s up, Jehan, haven’t you heard about giving a decent heads up, you fucker?_ , but his friends have been standing him for five years and know that historically accurate terms of endearment only come out of his mouth after he’s had half a litre of coffee, if not a drink or two. Jehan rolls her eyes at him.

“Supriiiiiiseeee!” yells Musichetta, loudly and uselessly, and Grantaire can’t help himself. He snorts and breaks into a grin, because he may not always appreciate surprises, and he may have mastered French grumbling to an art like any self-respecting Parisian, but his very bones are glad to see them.

And then there is Enjolras.

“Hello, R,” he says, standing in front of him. And suddenly the whole universe reorganises itself around him. Copernicus was a fool for ever thinking the Earth turned around anything else than this man; all compasses must point to him, him the magnetic North: there is his face, his clarion-voice, and the world makes sense. Grantaire’s heart squeezes oddly, like it is maybe trying to die a little, a swallow who suddenly forgets how to fly.

“Dearest Apollo, Hyperion himself could not deviate his course more than you did coming down from your northern capital to these humble, sea-salted regions,” he says, and immediately regrets it. Something like aggravation or disappointment flashes in Enjolras’s eyes. It is always so terribly easy to fall back into the same old ruts, wheels that skid and catch the already-traced track. Grantaire wants to curl up in a ball on the humid garden ground, but he turns around instead, blindly grabs one of the packs Jehan and Bossuet got out of the boot and beckons the newcomers inside, cursing himself for not being able to outgrow the shape he used to take Before.

 

*

 

“R!” Grantaire looks up to Gavroche, who has barged into the kitchen where he was peeling potatoes next to Enjolras, himself glued to the only radio of the house. “Chetta, Jehan, Bossuet and I are going to the cinema. Do you two want to come?”

Authorisation had been a sore point between Gavroche and Grantaire. On the one hand, Grantaire felt slightly wrong at even _hearing_ someone asking him for it, seeing he had barely done with Javert’s when the man was alive and that he chaffed at any form of authority. On the other hand, he _was_ supposed to be raising Gavroche; the kid was under his protection and guardianship, and Grantaire had been discovering something like parental control in himself. On Gavroche’s side, years of neglect with the Thénardiers had not really given him the habit of asking for permission. With the added effect of his grief and the muted way he deals with it, he sometimes balked at the most unpredictable aspects of their new living situation. It had all escalated until a screaming match a few weeks ago, where Gavroche had yelled _You’re not my dad, okay? You’re not even my real brother! You don’t get to boss me around!_

It had hurt.

They talked afterwards, and came to an agreement of sorts, based on Grantaire’s explicit trust in Gavroche and the latter’s promise not to do anything stupid, and that took the form of Gavroche warning Grantaire where he went instead of outright asking for permission. It worked, for the moment.

Enjolras looks up too and smiles at Gavroche, a kind, warm smile Grantaire would never admit he is a little jealous of. “Nah, not me. You know I can’t really stand cinemas, auditoriums and the like.”

“Yeah, not when you’re on the public’s side, anyway,” snarks Jehan, who has come in with the others. Enjolras huffs but doesn’t answer, which is as good as an admission.

“Well, R can’t leave Enjolras alone now, can he?” pips Bossuet, ostentatiously concentrated on his rebellious shoe-lace so as to avoid Grantaire’s murderous look.

“That’s right though,” adds Musichetta. “R, you should show Enj around a bit, he’s only ever been here for short periods. Why don’t you two go take a walk while we’re out?”

“I’m peeling potatoes, Chetta. _Po-ta-toes_?” Grantaire tries in his best Sam Gamgee imitation, with mitigated success. Enjolras darts a glance at him, which Grantaire catches because he is himself constantly aware of the blond. “You know, for our _dinner_ tonight?”

Musichetta waves a hand in his direction as she pulls on her boots. “The potatoes won’t run away, honey. You two can go for a walk, and we’ll all do it together when we’re back. It’ll be much faster and a true, heart-warming, team-bonding moment,” she ends with a dramatic sigh. Bossuet snorts.

“Actually, I’ve never seen the sea here,” quips Enjolras. Grantaire sighs, puts down his peeling knife and his potato and gets up to wash his hands.

“Okay, you win. I can’t let you leave this island without having seen the sea.”

“Bundle up, though,” interjects Jehan. “It’s supposed to be April but it’s cold outside.”

Grantaire nods and leaves the kitchen to grab his coat and his camera as Enjolras sing-songs _welcome to_ _c_ _limate chaaaange_ behind him.

 

They walk in silence down the white path, inching closer to the sea. The sky is a rare blue above them, having momentarily dispelled its greyness with a fresh wind come from the Atlantic. The sun’s slanting course slowly draws westward, and would soon blind them were it not for its lack of real lustre. Grantaire plods on through the scratchy smell of the tamarisk trees, acutely aware of Enjolras’s presence beside him. Spring is always a little late on the island, but that only means the winter light still washes everything in its tin-like glow. He makes them stop thrice for pictures, and Enjolras’s quietness and attention at his own movements only spurs him into taking better shots. _This could work_ , a small voice says in the back of his mind as they walk up the dune and the ocean appears before them.

“Do you like it here?” asks Enjolras after a few minutes of silence. Grantaire, a little surprised, glances at him before going back to watching the steely rolls of water and foam crash on the coarse sand. He thinks before answering; not his usual bullshit, but the truth, simple, plain and a little ugly. This island makes masks fall. Unless it is the weight of the dead.

“I don’t.”

“Really?” Enjolras looks taken aback, and Grantaire says so. “Well, I guess I thought you found all this very…” he hesitates, “beautiful,” he finishes lamely.

Grantaire snorts and sits on the sand, followed by Enjolras. How odd, he thinks, that he should be the one leading and Enjolras the one grasping for plain and simple words. But he thinks he is starting to understand that maybe, maybe Enjolras doesn’t always go first; maybe he doesn’t always know where to cut with razor-sharp sentences. Maybe he struggles, too.

“I reckon it is,” he says. “The sea, the marshes and the old sun-washed stones… if you like Polanski colours.”

“It does remind one of _The Ghost Writer_ ,” Enjolras admits.

“Ha! You too? Éponine always used to say I was ridiculous when I said that!” Grantaire triumphs, and his breath doesn’t even hitch on Éponine’s name. He keeps talking before pain can hit him. Like Peter Pan, losing his shadow; unlike him, flying from it, faster than it and leaving it far, far behind. “I guess it can be beautiful. Even in summer – the colours are completely different then.”

“But…?” Enjolras prompts him.

“You know how when you do something listening to one song on repeat you end up associating that song with what you were doing?” Enjolras nods. “Well, it’s kinda the same, except for memories.”

“You have bad memories tied to this place? I thought this is where Éponine and you met.”

Grantaire nods, swallows and leaps. It’s too late for second thoughts. “Yeah. That’s the best thing about this whole place. But see, I came here when I was fifteen – I’d been jumping from one foster home to another for years, I was unstable and what people call a lost cause. And then this grumpy man – Javert, apparently your father used to know him –” Enjolras hums in assent, a smile playing on his lips, and Grantaire feels like there is far more to it than he knows, as he feels the now-familiar pinch of _I could have_ _met_ _him so much_ _earlier_ – followed by an _it would have gone even_ _worse_. “Well, Javert took me in when no-one else would, because no family wants a fifteen year-old fuck-up. But the thing with Javert is that he’d been a police inspector before retiring early when he was wounded, and he’d seen cases like mine, and cases far worse, and he knew that if I was left in the system I’d end up a delinquent like he’d arrested hundreds. He’d actually gotten Éponine a year before – he had what he’d always wanted, a daughter to raise, he didn’t have to take me in, but he did all the same.”

“Because that was the right thing to do,” Enjolras murmurs.

“Yeah. That’s what he always did. The right thing. Even when it wasn’t the _good_ one.”

They remain silent for a minute before Grantaire starts talking again.

“Okay, back on track. So here I come, fifteen and fucked-up. Javert – he was a good man, really, and I owe him a lot, but he wasn’t ready for my shit – and I wasn’t ready for his either. I think we came too late in each other’s lives.”

“That’s a pity.”

“Yeah. It is. Éponine loved him a lot. I guess I did too, but I only realised that after he died. I never got to tell him.”

“He must have known,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire looks at him. Enjolras is watching him and Grantaire realises with a start that this is it _–_ _this_ is what having Enjolras’s undivided attention and focus are like.

He doesn’t melt.

Instead, he softly huffs and smiles at Enjolras before his gaze goes back to the sea. He feels… not good, not really, but all right. Relaxed. Like he would feel with Joly, Bossuet or Jehan, or any of the Amis, though with an added edge to it. Like he would feel with a friend. Because that’s what they have become – or are becoming, right now, in this precise instant, seated on cold sand on an Atlantic beach at the end of winter, or the start of spring, facing west where the sun will soon start sinking. He smiles in his scarf, feeling, _really_ feeling something for the first time in months, like a drop of undiluted _something_ in a sea of grief. Not much, but just enough to remind him that there is a shore beyond.

Enjolras’s elbow digs in his ribs, or rather grazes them since they are both swaddled up in their coats.

“Keep going.”

“Right. So I met Éponine too – she didn’t take any of my shit, was pretty much as banged up as I was, or used to be because Javert had helped her a lot already. They were good for each other. She already was this no-nonsense kind of girl, you know, with an enormous heart underneath.”

“Yeah, that would be her,” Enjolras assents.

“We became really close at once. But things with Javert were difficult. We both made mistakes. Since I’d come to a safe place – and that’s something I can say about him, Javert I mean, he always made it very clear the next time I left would be on my own terms. ‘There is no throwing you out of here’, he used to say, blunt like that. ‘This is your home and you stay here as long as you feel like it,’ he would say. So the pressure dropped a little in my mind, and, well. Turns out I had depression.”

“How long did it last?”

“The worst of it, five months. And then on and off since, but never that long, or that hard. I just…” His breath hitches. “I thought I was going to die. I thought _this is it, this is where it ends_ , I was fifteen and I’d just found a sister, and a dad, and I thought, _I can’t survive this_. It’s been more than ten years and I’m still afraid it’s gonna come back like that first time. Sometimes it does, but it’s never lasted more than a month, and it still scares me shitless when I get better, afterwards.” He lets out a small, acidic laugh. “Ép used to look after me in these moments – just reminded me that if I killed myself she’d make me regret it. I never thought she’d be the one to die first. It was always supposed to be me.”

Silence.

“It was always supposed to be _me_ ,” he brokenly repeats.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, he is sobbing, uncontrollable, big and heaving sobs that make his whole body shake.

“She, she was the strong one,” he continues despite the tears, his mouth full of saliva. “She was the, the fighter, she knew how to keep going, she saved me from becoming a homeless drunk. Me, I don’t, I can’t, I’m broken already, I was never supposed to outlive her and now she’s left me on my own, and I’ve got to keep fighting because there’s Gavroche to take care of now and I can’t leave him alone, I can’t, I –”

“Hey, come on, Grantaire, R, come on,” Enjolras tries, rubbing a hand over Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire buries his face in his knees and keeps sobbing, violent, nerve-wracking sobs that leave him gasping for air.

This is the first time he cries. It is like Éponine has died all over again, her death carved in the very marrow of the world, inescapable, unending, just like the crashing waves before them. Éponine dies, dies and keeps dying, in every breath he takes, in every word he utters, in every noise in the house at night, in every memory that resurfaces, in every single minute of life lived despite her, as though the evidence of her death needed to be constantly and forever rewritten on the face of all things.

So the sun sinks, the waves crash, Enjolras waits and Grantaire cries.

 

*

 

On Thursday 20, 2017, at half past four in the afternoon, someone knocks on a green-painted door.

The kitchen is filled with the smell of the cake Bossuet just put in the oven, and the six of them are sitting around the table, drinking herbal tea and playing tarot (Gavroche is smoking them all, closely followed by Jehan). Musichetta, who still has vivid memories of Iran, has always said kitchens were made to be the heart of a house, and they all agree. She is the one sitting closest to the front door; after a questioning glance at Grantaire, who answers with a shrug, she gets up and opens it.

 

Éponine is standing on the other side of it.

 

Gavroche is the one who breaks the spell when his chair clatters to the ground and he cries a name that has Grantaire getting up as well. After a month of radio silence, a month during which Grantaire waited with bated breath for an answer, a sign of life, _anything_ , Azelma Thénardier is here, an almost-exact replica of her sister. They could be twins if Grantaire didn’t know better.

Musichetta regains her voice first and tells her to come in over Gavroche’s head, buried in his sister’s neck. Azelma smiles, murmurs something in Spanish to Gavroche, who steps back, and walks in, hauling a big travel bag behind her. She sets it on the ground, dusts up her hands on her trousers and looks at the assembled party.

“Good evening,” she starts. Her voice is less deep, less gravely than Éponine’s, and that helps Grantaire to re-focus. He realises Enjolras has put a hand on his elbow, but neither moves it. “I’m Azelma, Gavroche and Éponine’s sister.”

“Yeah, we’d gathered,” grumbles Bossuet.

“Which one of you is Grantaire?”

“That’s me,” Grantaire answers, stepping up and extending a hand. Azelma shakes it, sure and controlled if it weren’t for the faint, invisible tremors that run through her. Her other hand, Grantaire notices, is still clasped in Gavroche’s. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

Azelma purses her lips. “I… I know. I should have answered your email long ago, but I couldn’t. My apologies.”

Grantaire nods and lets it be, for the moment. He introduces the other four and after a few minutes Musichetta and Gavroche (who has been studiously avoiding Grantaire) lead Azelma to her guest room while Jehan warms water for another tea. Grantaire heavily sits back in his chair and stares at the table-cloth’s geometrical patterns. He took out the mechanical clock a few weeks ago, but its phantom ticking still resonates in the kitchen over the hum of the electrical kettle.

“R. Are you all right?” asks Bossuet. Enjolras scoots his chair closer. Grantaire rakes a hand through his hair and shrugs.

“I don’t know? I sent her an email more than a month ago to let her know about Éponine, but she never answered? And now she turns up unannounced, and it looks like Gavroche wasn’t that surprised, and honestly I’m a bit pissed. And shaken.”

“She looks so much…” Enjolras doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t need to. They have all seen a ghost. Grantaire blindly reaches for his mug and swallows some lukewarm tea to give himself a countenance. When he looks up, he finds Jehan’s, Bossuet’s and Enjolras’s concerned eyes on him, and at the same time he feels an incoming text message’s buzz in his pocket. Joly and Courfeyrac and/or Combeferre, and even maybe Cosette, must probably already know, and the others will soon as well. His treacherous brain decides it is an excellent time to point out how beautiful and at home Enjolras looks in the kitchen’s warm, golden light, but he valiantly ignores it and stretches his mouth into something that resembles a smile.

“Don’t worry, guys. It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

“We’ll figure it out with you,” Enjolras and Jehan say at the same time while Bossuet nods. Grantaire’s smile suddenly becomes a more natural one. He can hear Musichetta, Gavroche and Azelma making their way back into the kitchen, and irrational dread slowly creeping up on him, but he is not alone.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't forget to leave a kudo and A COMMENT, I live for them aaaand they motivate me to write. I always welcome constructive criticism, as long as it's polite and kindly meant.


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